


Performance In a Leading Role

by Mad_Lori



Series: Performance in a Leading Role [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Behind the Scenes, Coming Out, Hollywood, M/M, Meta, Real Person Cameos, Romance, Secret Relationship, Show Business
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-19
Updated: 2011-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-21 13:12:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 156,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Lori/pseuds/Mad_Lori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is an Oscar winner in the midst of a career slump. John Watson is an Everyman actor trapped in the rom-com ghetto. When they are cast as a gay couple in a new independent drama, will they surprise each other? Will their on-screen romance make its way into the real world?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Исполняя главную роль](https://archiveofourown.org/works/672059) by [subetsarana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/subetsarana/pseuds/subetsarana)
  * Translation into Français available: [Performance in a leading role, traduction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3314909) by [LeRoyaumeSousLaPluie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeRoyaumeSousLaPluie/pseuds/LeRoyaumeSousLaPluie)



> Response to a prompt on the SherlockBBC LJ community: Sherlock is an Oscar-nominated method actor, John is in the usual leading man in rom-coms. They are both experiencing a slump in their careers, and their managers convince them to portray a gay couple in an upcoming film. Sherlock at first looks down at John because of his not so impressive filmography, but they film a certain emotional scene and he is impressed with John's really excellent acting. CAN LOVE BLOOM BEHIND THE CAMERAS?

If he hadn’t already been keenly aware of it, Sherlock Holmes would have known that his career was sliding slowly into oblivion by the way other people acted toward him as he walked through to his agent’s office. Five years ago, the second he walked in, all eyes would have turned towards him. Shy smiles, blushes, eyelash-batting, big proud grins. Rushes to get him tea, take his coat. That sense of communal success that came from one of their actors doing well. Go, team, go. One of the agency’s clients winning an Oscar was like the entire team winning the World Cup. It brightened everyone’s prospects.

Today, it was all avoidance. When your last picture belly-flopped and the previous one was a critical embarrassment, capping off a string of underperforming films, no one wanted to meet your eyes. He wasn’t bringing in the commissions. His asking price was sinking. The directors weren’t lining up at his agent’s doorstep, begging to give him a script.

The only upside to all this was that the bloody paparrazzi were leaving him alone. God, he hated Los Angeles. Not that London was much of an improvement; the tabloids there were even worse. At least there, he knew where he could go and have some peace. The community was tighter. He’d gone to RADA with half of the British film industry. Here, it was every man for himself.

Greg was waiting for him at his assistant’s desk. He smiled and shook his hand. “Sherlock. Come on in.”

Sherlock followed Greg into his understated office. He was one of the most powerful agents in Hollywood, but Greg was calm and efficient. It was one of the reasons Sherlock had chosen him ten years ago, after his first nomination had turned him overnight into a hot commodity. He didn’t need a cheerleader or someone to stroke his ego. He needed a partner, and Greg had been that.

“I’ve got good news and bad news,” Greg said, sitting down. Sherlock did the same. “Which do you want first?”

“I think I already know the nature of the bad news,” Sherlock said.

“I’ve spoken to David. They’re not going to make you an offer.”

Sherlock sighed. “That part is mine, Greg. I would fucking _own_ it. I can already see it in my mind.”

“I don’t disagree. They’re going another way.”

He squinted. “What way are they going?”

Greg hesitated. “Nothing’s been announced, but – I hear they’re going to offer it to Robert.”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open. “Please, tell me you’re joking.”

“I am not.”

“He’s ten years older than me! The character is supposed to be _thirty!_ ”

“David knows Robert, they’ve worked together before.”

“The man plays every role as himself!”

“He’s a good actor, Sherlock. And his last two pictures took home tidy profits. _And_ he doesn’t reduce his directors to hysterics on set.”

Sherlock sniffed. “The very idea that Robert Downey, Jr and I could ever be considered as candidates for the same role is insulting.”

“Don’t get up on your high horse. You still have options. Quentin called again…”

“No.”

“It’s a very interesting part.”

“It’s a _small_ part, is what it is. I will not take one of Quentin’s trademarked rescue-the-has-been supporting roles.”

“He’s saved careers in worse shape than yours, you know.”

“I am not yet in a position to have to go begging to that video store clerk.” He frowned. “Am I?”

“No, I wouldn’t say so.” Greg folded his hands on his desktop. “But it’s getting there, Sherlock. You pay me for honesty, so here it is. The Oscar curse is real.”

Sherlock sniffed. “No, it isn’t. It’s merely a manifestation of regression to the mean. An exceptional result is a statistical outlier, therefore subsequent data points will tend back towards the average, which will give the impression of a decline.”

“However you explain it, you’re not immune. The bloom is off the rose. _Kanisza_ was five years ago. No one’s forgotten what you’re capable of. You’ve proven it time and again. But the money isn’t there, and that’s the only currency that matters.”

“May I remind you that no one predicted that _Kanizsa_ would achieve the financial success that it did? And that part of the reason it made money was the Oscar bump it got from _my performance?_ ”

“I don’t need reminding. I make that very point to directors and producers every day. But recapturing that isn’t easy. And some of your choices since then have been – unorthodox.”

Sherlock sighed. “Go ahead, say it. I told you so.”

“I won’t say that. I’m your agent, you pay me to make deals on your behalf, not to dictate your creative choices. But you’re not making it easy for me.”

“I don’t care about the money. All that matters to me is the work. I just want something interesting, something challenging. If all I cared about was money, I could take period dramas or action-movie-villain roles until I retire, or die of boredom.”

“You just described Alan Rickman’s career. Don’t knock it.”

“Alan has Potter residuals to live on until the end of time. His worries are over. All I care about are roles worth my time and effort.”

“But if your films aren’t making money, you’ll be taking those roles in tiny self-financed independent films and you’ll have to move to Burbank. You can talk about money like it’s not important because you _have_ it. For now. Box office success is directly translatable to artistic freedom. I know you want to help produce scripts you think are interesting. I know you want choices. For that, you need marketability. And yours is bleeding away fast.” Greg took a deep breath. “We cannot afford another disaster like _Schrodinger Paradox._ ”

Sherlock tightened up, his jaw clenching. “That was not my fault.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“The studio butchered that film. Paul damn near lost his mind. The rewrites killed the script.”

“No argument. But the reviews…”

“My performance was the only thing that got positive notice.”

“That wasn’t enough to save the film. It lost two hundred million dollars, Sherlock. And you were supposed to be a draw.”

“I can’t buoy up an entire production! I signed on for a thoughtful speculative piece and the studio decided they wanted a futuristic actioner!”

“Nobody’s blaming you.”

“Nobody’s hiring me, either.”

Silence fell. Finally, Greg sighed. “Well, we’re not done yet. I’ve got a couple of interesting prospects.”

Sherlock braced himself. “All right. Let’s hear them.”

“The first could be a franchise.”

“A franchise? Surely you jest.”

“No. A somewhat atypical one. It’s based on a series of books, the Shadow Unit series. It’s about a team of FBI behavioral analysts who investigate paranormal phenomenon.”

“Sounds ridiculous.”

“Actually it’s quite fascinating. Gritty and noir and intelligent. There’s a fantastic character for you, he’s a bit younger than you, but I think you can play it. He’s the team’s resident genius.”

“How appropriate. Who is directing this _piece de resistance?_ ”

“Well, hold on to your chair. It’s the Coens.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “The Coens are starting a paranormal franchise?”

“It’s pretty much the only genre they haven’t covered.”

“Hmm. I’ll have a look at the books. Is there a script?”

“Not as such. They’re in development.”

Sherlock made a face. “So that’s several years off, if it happens at all.”

“They’re making casting decisions, it can’t be that far off.”

“What’s the other prospect?”

“Well, this is the one I think you should consider the most. I had a call from Ang Lee. He’s very interested in meeting with you about a role in his new film.”

“What’s the film?”

“It’s about a gay couple.”

“Oh, going back to that well, is he?”

“This isn’t Brokeback Part 2. Ang’s very interested in making a film about the life of a gay couple that isn’t a ‘gay film,’” Greg said, making air quotes.

Sherlock frowned. “How do you mean?”

“He doesn’t want the film to be about the traditional gay-film topics. AIDS and homophobia and coming out and religion and family discord. He wants to make the sort of film one might make about any couple, except that this couple is two men. I’ve read the script. I think it’s astonishingly good. Very honest, very stark.”

“I don’t know, Greg. Playing gay is a risk. It shouldn’t be, but it is.”

“Look what it did for Heath Ledger.”

“Unfortunate example. The poor bloke died.”

“Yes, but before that his career was through the roof.”

Sherlock sighed. “Who wrote the script?”

“It’s a first-time screenwriter, Molly Hooper. Apparently she wrote the script with you in mind.”

“Grand. A treatise by a fan.”

“That’s not how it reads.” Greg reached into his desk and pulled out a script. He tossed it across to Sherlock. “Take it home. Read it. Call me when you’re done and we’ll talk.”

* * *

Sherlock took the script home to the condo he maintained in Los Angeles for the time he was forced to spend there. He set up camp on his patio with some wine and his laptop and started reading.

Four hours later, he dialed Greg.

“Lestrade.”

“Greg, it’s Sherlock.”

“Well?”

“I must be in this film. I must.”

“I knew you’d say that.”

“The title has to be changed, though. ‘Silence and Death?’ Bloody grim. Sounds like a Jim Jarmusch film, and we all know the audiences stampede to those.”

“I’m with you on the title. I believe that’s open for discussion. So, you want me to call Ang?”

“Tell him I’ll read for him if he wants.”

“Oh, you’re condescending to read for a role?”

“For this one, I’ll read.”

“I don’t think you’ll need to. You’re the actor he wants.”

“I don’t care if he pays me scale. I must do this.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you this excited about a part.”

“It’s a fantastic part. I can see where this Hooper woman drew some inspiration from me, but Benjamin is – he’s not me. He’s in a cocoon, and there’s this fantastic cyclical development she’s drawn for him. It’s interesting.”

“I’m glad you’re reacting this way. And I don’t think you’ll have to settle for scale.”

“Have they cast the other role? Who do they want for Mark?”

“I’m not really…”

“Because I have some ideas about that. Oh, I should call Jimmy, he’d love this part – but I think he’s committed to the _Wanted_ sequel. You know who’d be fantastic, is Matt Goode. I did an episode of Buzzcocks with him once, he’s lovely.”

“Sherlock.”

“What?”

He heard Greg sigh. “I fear you’re not going to like this. There’s been no offer made, but the casting director told me that Ang wants John Watson.”

Sherlock’s stomach dropped. “ _What?_ ”

* * *

John blinked. “Pull the other one.”

Mike grinned. “I’m not having you on, mate.”

“Stop it. Stop it right now.”

“I’m serious! Would I kid you about something like this?”

John grabbed Mike’s lapel, grinning. “Ang Lee wants to talk to _me_ about a part? A part in which I will not have to make googly eyes at a mindless starlet fifteen years younger than me?”

“You heard me correctly.”

“Call him back! Tell him I’ll meet him now, today! Anywhere he wants!”

“Don’t you want to read the script?” Mike said, laughing.

“Oh, does it matter?”

“You’d be playing half of a gay couple.”

“I’d play a transgender serial killer if he asked me to. Is the script good?”

“It’s mind-blowing. This could revolutionize your career, John.”

“Don’t tease me, Mike.”

“You could escape the rom-com ghetto.”

John sat down heavily. “How did I get there in the first place?”

“Well, the first one was actually good. That’s the seductive part. And it made money. And then the offers all went in that direction, and…”

“Before I knew it, I was taking the parts that even McConaughey wouldn’t touch.” John sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “It’d just be nice to act in something real, something with substance, with a co-star I could actually act _with,_ not _at._ ”

“Well, you might just get that. Guess who Ang wants as your co-star?”

“I couldn’t possibly.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

John’s eyes widened. “Bloody hell.” He sagged. “Well, that’s that, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“A project with Sherlock Holmes attached to it isn’t going to cast me, King of the Date Movie.”

“Don’t be so quick to think so. It’s awhile since _Kanizsa,_ his star’s not shining at brightly as it once did. I don’t think he’s in a position to dictate casting. I mean, did you see _The Schrodinger Paradox?_ ”

“Yes. He was the only thing in it worth watching. That disaster had ‘studio interference’ written all over it. I hear that Haggis nearly had a nervous breakdown during the shoot.” John sighed. “Damn. The chance to act with Sherlock Holmes. Pinch me, will you?”

“I’m going to call Ang and set up a meeting. He’ll want you and Holmes to screen test together. The two of you will have to carry this entire movie and it will live or die on the strength of the chemistry between you, so he’ll have to make sure it’s there.”

“Email me the script, I’ll read it tonight. But if it’s as good as you say, you can tell Ang I’ll work for free coffee and a donut.”

* * *

“I can’t believe I agreed to this,” Sherlock muttered, rolling and unrolling the script in his hands.

“Shut your face,” Sally snapped, handing him his tea. “You’ve got to play this part.”

“If they cast this buffoon, the movie’s sunk. All this potential? All this brilliance in these pages? John Watson will piss all over it with ham-handed acting and obvious choices. This calls for subtlety, not the dramatic stylings of a man accustomed to trading so-called adorable banter with the starlet _du jour._ ”

“He did some really interesting character work when he started out, you know.”

“And how long has it been since he’s been asked to do anything more challenging than a Meet Cute?”

“He’s an actor, just like you.”

“He’s a generic boy-next-door, the die-cast Unthreatening Male. I need a co-star with a bit more edge to him. Give me something to act against! He’s a bloody blank white wall!”

Sally sighed. “And you wonder how you acquired a reputation for being difficult to work with.”

“I am difficult. All the great ones are.”

“Point and match, I think.”

“This script requires heavy lifting. There is a scene in which Mark discovers his twin brother’s body after he’s committed suicide! That isn’t material for a man whose films have soundtracks with Top 40 hits on them!”

“You’re just nervous because you’re going to have to film love scenes with him.”

“I’m a professional. I can handle it. I’ve done love scenes before.”

“Not with another man, you haven’t. Here, give me your coat, you know you get sweaty before a screen test. Do you want to look all red-faced on camera?”

“What would I do without you?”

“You’d never find another PA, that’s for sure. Being your assistant ought to qualify me for the diplomatic corps.”

“So, have you ever met him? Watson, I mean? Perhaps when you worked for that dreadful publicist?”

“I met him once, at the SAG awards. He’s very nice.”

“Nice. How delightful,” Sherlock said. He squared his shoulders as they approached the production office. “All right, game faces on.”

They were shown into an office which had been set up for the screen test. “Hello, Jim,” said Sherlock, shaking hands with the producer, Jim Schamus. He looked around. “Ang isn’t joining us today?”

“He’s on a location scout. We’re going to livestream the footage to him.”

“I see,” said Sherlock, irritated. He would have vastly preferred to have the director present. “You’ve met my assistant, Sally Donovan.”

“Yes, hello, Sally,” said Schamus.

“Jim, is Ang really serious about John Watson?” Sherlock asked, seizing the chance while they were alone. “For this material? We might as well cast that Timberlake chap.”

Jim chuckled. “You know, nobody thought that Jim Carrey could handle _Eternal Sunshine_ either, when we cast him. Nobody thought Michelle Williams was right for Brokeback.” He winked. “Trust me, Sherlock. Our casting directors know what they’re doing.”

Sherlock had his doubts about that, but he didn’t have time to object further. The door opened again and in strode John Watson, smiling and flushed with excitement. He was trailed by a woman, obviously a relative, who seemed to be his PA.

“Ah, John. Lovely to see you,” said Schamus, shaking Watson’s hand.

“Jim, hello. Good to meet you in person, finally. This is my sister Harry, she’s my PA.” Schamus shook Harry’s hand. Watson turned and looked up at Sherlock. Way up. The man was short. “Mr. Holmes!” he said, sticking out his hand.

“Sherlock, please,” he said, keeping his tone no more than cordial. He shook the man’s hand.

“Crikey, you are tall! John Watson, please call me John. It’s fantastic to meet you, I’m a huge fan. I think I’ve seen _Rotisserie_ a dozen times.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but soften a bit, hearing that. _Rotisserie_ was his personal favorite of his own performances, but no one ever mentioned it because it was an obscure art film he’d done early in his career. “Thank you. I’m fond of that film.” Watson smiled eagerly up at him, clearly hoping for a reciprocation of praise for one of his own films, but to Sherlock’s dismay, he could not dredge up the name of a single one of them. “And you, of course – I’m a…fan,” he managed, hoping he sounded convincing.

John’s smile fell a bit. Didn’t look like he was buying it. “Well, I’m very excited about this project.”

“As am I.”

John shuffled a bit. “Well, Jim, shall we get to it?”

“Yes. We’ve got the cameras set up here, double coverage so just go through the scene as naturally as you can.”

John set his script on the table. Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “Are you off book?”

“Yes, of course.”

Sherlock sniffed. “I wouldn’t go off book until after the full cast read-through. It’s pointless to commit a preliminary draft to memory.”

“I prefer to work off book. Gives me more room to breathe.” John rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, one direction, then the other. Sherlock set down his tea, rolling his eyes behind John’s back.

He stepped into the camera’s view, script in hand – he did have at least part of the scene committed to memory, but he wasn’t ready to discard the print – and he and John sat down at the table set there as a stand-in for the park bench where Benjamin and Mark meet.

“Whenever you’re ready,” said Schamus.

John had the first line. Sherlock waited, settling into something like Benjamin. This test wouldn’t be about how he’d eventually play Benjamin, but more about how he and John clicked on screen. Sherlock hoped it would be a dismal failure, frankly. He himself had already signed a contract for this film, so it was really John who was testing here. If their interaction wasn’t what Ang wanted, they’d cast someone else as Mark. Sherlock was already imagining other actors he could perform this script with. The possibilities were tantalizing.

And he was still waiting. John was just sitting there.

He was about to say something when abruptly, John’s posture shifted and his shoulders kicked back a notch, and – he was different. Hard to say how, exactly, but he was. He looked up at Sherlock and delivered the first line. It was like a tennis serve, lobbed across the table, and Sherlock found himself volleying it back with his own line. John caught it with a gesture and an uncertain smile, his character unsure of who he was dealing with, and continued the dialogue.

Sherlock forgot how badly he wanted John to fail. He forgot that he was screen testing with this man. He just sat back and acted the scene. It was easy, like falling into step with a longtime dance partner, like settling into the dip you’ve worn into your mattress. He barely glanced at his script. Some of his lines weren’t exactly on-book, but John ad libbed responses that fit and kept the scene going. Sherlock felt his character shaping, but shaping in tandem.

It was only a three-page scene. It was over in five minutes.

John grinned, the character he’d just put on falling instantly away and leaving him behind. Sherlock blinked. “That was jolly good,” John said. “Great script, isn’t it?”

“Indeed it is,” Sherlock said, gathering his self-possession around him. He stood up. “Jim, does Ang want another scene?”

“No, I think that’ll do,” Jim said. “We’ll be in touch.”

John practically leapt to shake Sherlock’s hand again. “It was a real thrill to read with you, Sherlock. I hope we’ll be working together on this project.”

In spite of himself Sherlock found himself hoping so, too. “Quite,” was all he said.

“Must be off. I’ve got press junkets this afternoon,” he said, making a face. Everyone hated press junkets. “I’ll be expected to wax rhapsodic about my co-star, who never got off cue cards the entire shoot, incidentally. Afternoon!” he said, with a wave. And then he was gone.

Schamus was already on the phone. He waved goodbye to Sherlock as he and Sally left the production offices. “I thought that was quite good,” Sally said.

Sherlock snorted. “Please. The man’s a hack. Barely a notch above soap opera acting.”

“You liked him, didn’t you? You’re just saving face, now. What, worried about being out-acted by the Everyman?”

“You are ridiculous. Please go and be elsewhere.”

Sally grinned. “I love it when you get insecure. I get the most delicious turns of phrase.”

They climbed into Sally’s car. “What’s on for this afternoon?” Sherlock asked.

“Afternoon’s free, actually. You’ve got a reception tonight at the Paley Center. What do you want to wear?”

“Oh, I don’t care. Pick something out.”

They’d barely gotten two blocks away before Sherlock’s mobile went off. “Holmes.”

“Jim Schamus here, Sherlock. I thought you’d like to know. Ang loved your screen test. We’re going to sign John to the picture. You’ve got your Mark. We’ll be in touch for pre-production meetings.”

“All right, Jim. Thanks.” He hung up, heaving a weary sigh. “Looks like I’ll be carrying the Everyman hack on my shoulders for this shoot,” he said.

“I wouldn’t count that guy out yet.”

“If he ruins this picture, I will make sure he never works…”

“…in this town again,” Sally finished with him, laughing. “Where have I heard that one before? Oh, that’s right – isn’t that the last thing Lars said to you before he kicked you off his set?”

Sherlock fumed. “And look how that picture did without me. Ridiculous Danish minimalistic masturbatory navel-gazing.”

Sally shook her head. “Maybe what you need is a John Watson to take you down a peg, Sherlock.”

“I don’t need anyone, Sally, least of all you, so mind yourself.”

“I’m not scared of you, you know. And neither was he.” She merged onto the freeway, cranking down her window. “I think I’m going to enjoy this.”


	2. Chapter 2

Key To Meta References (I’ll do this at the end of subsequent chapters but this one’s for chapter 1 because I didn’t think to put it on the actual chapter):

1\. The David who cast Robert Downey instead of Sherlock is David Fincher, director of many awesome films including _Se7en_ and _Fight Club,_ who directed RDJ in _Zodiac._  
2\. RADA is the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, a school that turned out many great British actors. Incidentally, Benedict is not one of them, he went to LAMDA, the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Arts.  
3\. Quentin is, of course, Quentin Tarantino.  
4\. The director of Sherlock’s failed film _The Schrodinger Paradox_ was Paul Haggis, director of _Crash._  
5\. Shadow Unit, the material being optioned by the Coen Brothers for a franchise, is a real series of paranormal thriller novels by a group of sci-fi and mystery authors. Google it, it’s fantastic. I have no inside information about film options, I made that part up.  
6\. Jim Schamus is the CEO of Focus Features, the art-house branch of Universal, and he is Ang Lee’s longtime producing partner. They’ve worked together on all of Lee’s stateside films.  
7\. The Jimmy that Sherlock considers his costar is meant to be James McAvoy, who is in reality close friends with Benedict Cumberbatch. He is, in fact, committed to a sequel to _Wanted._  
8\. Only one person commented on the character’s names in the script. I came very close to naming those characters Benedict and Martin, but that was a bit too meta even for me so I went with the soundalike names of Benjamin and Mark.

Disclaimer: Any and all Hollywood gossip and dialogue pertaining to or assigned to actual people is entirely of my own invention. Although one does hear things if one pays attention.

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

Sherlock was nearly upside down when he heard Sally’s key in the door. She clomped in with her ridiculous shoes and tossed her keys to the table. “Sherlock?”

“I’m in here.”

Footsteps approached. “Who the hell do you think you’re supposed to be, Vincent Cassel?”

“People keep telling me that I ought to be doing this yoga thing. I’m finding it pointless and absurd.”

Sally’s face popped into view as she bent over to look at him. “I think you’re doing it wrong.”

“Nonsense. I found multiple instructional videos online, I am following them precisely.”

“Are your chakras aligned?”

“There are no such thing as chakras.”

“I could get you a real yoga instructor, you know. One phone call and I’d have twenty vying for the job.”

Sherlock righted himself, staggering a bit as all the blood rushed out of his head. “Who on earth would subject themselves to such a practice?”

“It’s very popular.”

“So is ‘Jersey Shore.’ Need I further qualify my opinion?” He went into the kitchen in search of water.

“I’ve got the production schedule for Untitled Film of Gayness.”

“I hope that’s not the new title.”

“No, just a handle of my own devising.”

“Let’s not suggest it to the poor screenwriter, shall we?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Did you know the entire shoot is in Toronto?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Huh. Looks like it’s Canadian camp-out time.”

“I’m sure the studio will provide us with adequate accommodations. How long’s the schedule?”

“One week rehearsals, eight weeks principal.”

“Eight weeks, hmm. Well, I suppose it is a fairly long script.”

“Read-through and rehearsals will be here, three days’ time for production setup, then principal will start.” She hesitated. “I got a call from Harry Watson.”

“Who?”

“John’s PA. You know. John? Your co-star?”

“Ah, yes.”

“She said that John would like to meet up with you in private. Dinner or something. Just to talk about the film, get to know each other, that sort of thing.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course he would. He thinks that we have to be best mates to act together, because he’s an amateur face-puller who wants everyone to like him.”

“Some people like being liked!”

“It certainly isn’t necessary for a realistic performance.”

“No, but it is necessary if you want anybody to ever want to work with you, ever again.”

“If you’re good enough, they’ll work with you whether they like you or not.”

“You really are socially tone-deaf, aren’t you? It isn’t just an act, it’s a legitimate malfunction!”

“I have neither the time nor the inclination to change my behavior so as to make others more comfortable. If they are uncomfortable, that is their affair.”

Sally sighed. “I ought to just tape-record you sometime so that when they ask why you’re still single you can just play it back and it’ll clear everything up.”

Sherlock tossed his empty water bottle into the recycling. “Call John’s PA and tell him dinner is acceptable. Schedule it for me.”

Sally made a note on her PDA. “Are you going to watch the Globes tonight?”

Of course he was. He had his supplies all laid in. His favorite kosher-dill flavored popcorn from the gourmet shop down the street, a case of Orangina and the makings of vodka tonics for the moment when stupid people began winning awards and drinking became necessary. “Eh. I suppose so,” he said to Sally.

“John’s a presenter, you know.”

“Is he?” Sherlock sniffed. “They never ask _me_ to present. I only get an invite if I’m nominated.”

“They don’t ask because the one time you presented, you stood up there like an automaton and read the lines like you had a gun to your head, and made it very clear that you had nothing but contempt for the entire proceeding.”

Sherlock considered this. “Was it really that bad?”

“Please. Boards _wish_ they were that stiff.”

“Hm. Well, the whole thing is tiresome anyway, with the suits and the red carpets and the screaming fans and all the ridiculous arse-kissing.” He shuddered. “I’d rather watch from my living room.”

“Isn’t it funny how you always claim to prefer the option that you’ve gotten stuck with through being a complete prat?” She headed for the door. “I’m off to the dry cleaner’s and then I’ll pick up the revised scripts, okay?” She hesitated. “If you like, I’ll come back and watch the Globes with you.”

He would have liked to say yes, please. Sally was fun watching awards shows. Her snark, usually focused on him, became redirected towards the show in a way he found amusing. He shrugged. “Whatever you like.”

She grinned. “I’ll stop off and get some Tim Tams at the world market.” She was out the door. Sherlock smirked. God, he hated that woman.

* * *

Sarah cocked her head. “I don’t like the tie/shirt combination.”

“But – the stylist said…”

She flapped a hand. “Stylists. Stylists can’t stop dressing you like a fifty-year-old stockbroker with two kids and a minivan. You’re young and hip! You do not want this Regis Philbin look.”

“I’m not as young and hip as I used to be.” John frowned. “Come to think of it, I don’t think I was ever hip.”

“The suit’s good, at least.” She whipped the tie off his neck. “Come on, work with me, John. We’re going to be in a thousand photographs together tonight.”

“And they’ll all be asking us when we’re getting engaged or something equally appalling.”

“So we give them the old ‘we’re focusing on our careers’ line, hold hands and walk on by.”

“Did you see Perez Hilton yesterday? Another unidentified source claiming that you’re my beard.”

Sarah laughed, pawing through his rather disorganized pile of ties. “If all these unidentified sources ever got together they could form an army and take us all down.”

“You’re always _my_ beard. Isn’t that odd? They never report it the other way.”

“You mean the correct way?” She came up, victorious. “A ha! This one. Take off your shirt, that color white’s all wrong.”

John looked down at himself. “There are different colors of white?” He shrugged and took off his jacket, then his shirt, letting Sarah redress him. “Wow. That really is much better. And if even I can see it, it’s got to be.”

She smiled, standing behind him and smoothing the lines of his jacket. “What would you do without me?” She patted his shoulders and sat down to touch up her makeup. “Oh, that’s right. You’d be fending off ambitious starlets right and left.”

He watched her in the mirror. “How’s Anthea?”

Sarah met his eyes in the reflection, sadness pulling at her expression. “Home. By herself.” She sighed. “I will bring her to next year’s red carpets. I swear. This film is going to make me, John. I can’t even tell you.”

“It’s going well?”

“Honestly? It’s a dream. It’s that shoot we all fantasize about and never get. Clint is brilliant. He’s just got this way of speaking and guiding, it’s buoying everyone up. This is the best work I’ve ever done, and I know everyone else would say the same. We’re all making each other cry on a daily basis.”

John grinned. “I’m glad. You might be a nominee on next year’s red carpets.”

“God. Don’t say it. You’ll jinx me.” She stared at herself in the mirror. “It’s my ticket, John. I’ll be able to come out and my career can survive it.”

“I hope so. God, it infuriates me. This business has more poofs than you can have hot dinners thrown at you but nobody acknowledges it. Nobody comes out. I don’t understand it. This town, I swear. At home it wouldn’t be such a cracking great scandal.”

“That’s easy for you to say, you’re straight.”

“Ish.”

“Ish?” she said, arching an eyebrow.

“Is there an actor alive who’s completely straight? I doubt it. You don’t work in this business with the people who are in it and not jump the fence a few times.”

“This is too interesting a conversation to have right now when we’re already late.” She got up and took his arm. “Come on, you handsome thing. You’ve got a statue to give away.”

* * *

Sally had hunkered down on Sherlock’s couch with a plate of nachos and an Orangina. He glumly munched on his kosher dill popcorn and watched his colleagues traipse down the red carpet, being asked who they were wearing and if it was an honor to be nominated.

“Okay,” Sally said. “Are you going to run it down for me, or what? Half the fun – actually, almost all the fun – is listening to you pick everyone apart.”

He sighed. Of course he was, but he wouldn’t let her know that was the fun for him, too. “What do you wish to know?”

“You know! Who’s having an affair? Who’s secretly gay? You can tell by their tan lines or something, right?”

“Who’s having an affair? It’d be quicker to name who isn’t.” He narrowed his eyes, watching the parade of designer clothing. “Oh, dear Lord, she could at least be subtle about it.”

“About what?”

“She’s taken a much-younger lover. Look at her clothes. She’s dressing ten years too young all of a sudden, she is usually very age-appropriate. And she’s got her hand on her husband’s elbow instead of holding his hand.”

“That could mean anything.”

“No, look at her right hand. She’s wearing a ring, a smallish ring, too small for her husband to have given it to her. It’s a less expensive piece than her others. A gift from a less-established paramour with less refined tastes than her or her husband. Rather cheeky of her to wear it in front of him. He probably knows. Works out well for him. I hear he’s shagging his agent.”

Sally sat up straighter. “Look, there’s John! Oh, he looks fantastic!”

Sherlock eyed her. “You think so?”

“Thank God, looks like he ditched that awful stylist who dressed him like her father.”

“Hmm. It is a nice suit. That color combination should not work.”

“It does though.” She was grinning.

“Oh, you fancy him a bit, do you?”

“I think he’s adorable. So does half of America. And you get to shag him, you lucky bastard.”

“There will be no shagging!”

“I’ve read the script! You’re going to have to simulate giving him head, you know.”

“I’m a professional! I’m sure it will be done very – artistically!”

“Sarah looks nice.”

“Who is that, again?”

“Sarah Sawyer. They’ve been dating about a year. She was a bit player but then Clint cast her as the female lead in that suffragette film he’s shooting. The buzz out of that set is amazing. I’ve got a friend who’s the second AD, she says Sawyer is a sure thing for a nomination next year.”

“Well, she needs to reconsider what size gowns she orders. One deep breath and she’ll be showing us her bits.”

“Perez Hilton is fixated on her being John’s beard, but it’s just a rumor.”

Sherlock laughed. “His beard? They’ve got it backwards.”

Sally frowned. “Huh?”

“She isn’t his beard, he’s hers. That woman is a lesbian.” He leaned closer and cocked his head. “She has a longtime partner. At least five years…and her partner is pregnant.”

Sally leaned close too, peering at the screen, where John and Sarah were exchanging inane chitchat with Billy Bush. “Are you sure?” He just gave her a look. “Oh, sorry. Of course you’re sure. So John isn’t gay?”

“Well, he doesn’t identify as such. No man works as an actor for any length of time without having certain experiences.”

“Including you?”

“Did I give any indication that I was excepting myself?”

“You are holding out on me, Sherlock Holmes.”

“What, by withholding information that’s none of your business?”

“Hey, the second someone digs up an old blurry photo of you getting off with some bloke in a bar, it becomes my business, and Greg’s business, and your publicist’s business.”

“There are no blurry photos. I would never stoop to such tawdry behavior.”

“So, what? You hire high-end rent boys?”

“Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?”

“That wasn’t a denial!”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “Sally. Really. Do you honestly think that _I_ would have to pay for sex?”

She opened her mouth and shut it again. “Okay, point.”

* * *

John took a big swig of his beer, relaxing a little. It was ridiculous that he ought to still get stage fright when he was presenting at these things, having done over twenty films, but this was different. But, he hadn’t flubbed his lines and he’d managed to shake Russell’s hand as he gave him his statue, exchanging an insincere one-armed hug with the man, who he’d never met in his life nor wanted to.

But now, the mildly-enjoyable part. The post-awards party. Sarah had gone home. Both their publicists had screamed bloody murder at the very idea. “There’ll be reports that you went to the parties alone!” his had shrieked. “That she left without you! Trouble in paradise!” He profoundly didn’t care. He had entered into this fauxmance on the advice of those same blasted publicists, although to be fair, he’d known what he was getting into. Sarah was a friend, he wanted to help her, and he hated trying to be single in Hollywood. He wasn’t interested in pursuing a relationship but endless were the women who seemed interested in pursuing one with him, or rather with his name. “I need a permanent cockblock!” he’d shouted to his publicist after fending off a particularly persistent young actress for the fourth time. Her eyes had lit up and he’d known he was in trouble.

But it was wearing on both of them. Sarah wanted to be able to go out in public with the woman she loved, and John felt the pressure of duplicity whenever he was asked about Sarah by a talk-show host or an interviewer. He tried to avoid the topic, but getting journalists to respect your personal privacy was a task for a better man than he.

The downside was now he was alone at this party. He’d hoped to find some friends, chat a bit, catch up on the gossip. And, if he were totally honest with himself, do some subtle gloating about the film he’d just signed on to, which no doubt everybody here had heard about. The prospect of chatting up some people who’d worked with Sherlock before and could give him the straight dope wasn’t unwelcome, either. If he didn’t get himself locked into conversation soon, he might have to make a run for it. He’d counted at least three young actresses eyeing him so far, all of them hoping to get their photo snapped with him, thus guaranteeing themselves some face time in US Weekly.

 _Oh, thank God,_ he thought, spotting a familiar face. “Paul!” he said, waving.

“Oy, Watson!” came the answering hail. Paul emerged from the crowd, tall and blond and dashing as ever. John tamped down his height envy. He’d have to be doing that a lot in the coming months. Actors were, on the whole, surprisingly short, but Sherlock was six full feet if he was an inch. Paul shook his hand warmly, grinning. “Nice job up there tonight. Didn’t even trip over your own feet, well done.”

“Oh, thanks, you wanker. Congratulations on not winning, by the way.”

Paul shrugged. “Didn’t expect to. It was a token nomination. Where’s Sarah?”

“Oh, she’s gone home.” John didn’t need to prevaricate. Most everyone in town knew the score.

Paul nodded. “When’s the baby due, then?”

“August.”

“Tell her congratulations from us, eh? I’m hearing some things about Clint’s film. Might be seeing her on the stage next year, and not as a presenter.”

“It’s about time. She’s very talented. I knew it was just a matter of finding the right project.”

Paul smirked. “Speaking of…”

John blushed and ducked his head to hide his grin. “Yeah, yeah.”

“I read that script. I thought it was phenomenal. I’d have gone after Benjamin myself but I’m booked up. I think you’re great for it.”

“Really?” John couldn’t help but fluff up a bit under the praise. He had tremendous respect for Paul as an actor, and his opinion mattered.

“Really.” He looked and sounded so sincere. John didn’t think he was just talking him up. “I’ve been saying for years you need to get out of the rom-com business. It’s fun now and again, but how many has it been?”

“Too many,” John said, taking another drink.

“You’re in a rut, John. This is just what you need. You’re going to knock everyone’s socks off.”

“Ta, mate,” John said, feeling absurdly choked up. “Ta very much. Say, you haven’t worked with Ang, have you?”

“No. Jenny has, do you want to ask her? I think she’s getting a drink.” Paul craned his neck, looking across the room for his wife. He caught her eye and beckoned her over. John drew himself up a bit. Paul’s wife was one of the most beautiful women in Hollywood, and she’d always been a bit of a fantasy crush of John’s. She came gliding over, looking perfect as usual.

“Hey, John,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Congratulations on the project. It’s very exciting.”

“Thanks. Listen, what’s Ang like to work with? I’m just trying to psyche myself up.”

She looked thoughtful. “Don’t expect much give and take on set. He’s very quiet. He’ll let you know what he wants, but he’ll leave you to do the work yourself.”

“Hmm. Okay. We’ve got a full week of rehearsals scheduled.”

“Yes, he loves rehearsals. Take advantage of that time, that’s when you’ll really worry out how he wants you to play things. He won’t give you line readings, he’ll – well, sometimes he won’t make much sense, there’s still a little bit of a language barrier there, but you’ll get the idea.”

John nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Rely on Jim Schamus. He’s fantastic, he’ll be a real ally for you on set. Where are you shooting?”

“The whole shoot’s in Toronto.”

“Standing in for New York?”

“No, actually, the story’s set in Toronto. That’ll be novel. We won’t have to do that whole ‘I can’t believe it’s not New York’ thing.” John took a breath. “But it’s not really Ang I’m nervous about.”

Paul nodded. “Sherlock. He’s a piece of work. Neither of us have had the pleasure. Russell says he’s a nightmare.”

“I’ve heard he’s all Zen Master and Method while he’s working.”

“Oh, God, no,” Paul said. “Sherlock isn’t Method. That would require emotional awareness. No, he’s a mimic. He’s an astonishing observer of detail. I sat next to him at the nominee’s luncheon when he was up for _Kanisza._ He could just look at somebody and know who they were sleeping with, how their career was going, how their finances were and whether or not they were thinking about changing agents. And he’s always right. It’s a bit creepy. He doesn’t try to get inside characters. He observes and reproduces. With amazing effectiveness.”

“I hope that’ll be enough for this material. It’s very emotional, more so than the sorts of roles he typically plays.”

“If he wanted the part he must be up for it.”

“Let’s hope so. Our screen test went well. I think we’ll work it out.”

Paul grinned. “If you do, maybe we’ll be seeing _you_ on the stage next winter.”

John laughed. “That’ll be the day.”

* * *

Sherlock was pleasantly surprised to find John Watson waiting for him when he arrived at the restaurant, precisely on time as was his habit. People in the business were usually notoriously late, always eager to demonstrate to you that their time and attention were in greater demand than yours. John rose to shake his hand. “Sherlock, nice to see you,” he said, smiling.

“Pleasure,” Sherlock said, neutrally. He sat down and motioned to the waiter. “Vodka and tonic, please,” he said, noting that John was drinking a beer. Of course he was. He looked around at the restaurant. It was a comfortable but obviously upscale place, private and quiet. No one had looked at him twice when he’d entered, and there were no paparazzi camped out at the entrance. “I’ve never eaten here before.”

“It’s a bit of a closely-guarded secret,” John said. “The peanut gallery hasn’t discovered it yet. You’ll find the food very good.”

“I’m sure.”

“So, did you watch the Globes last night?” John said, eagerly.

“I may have caught a few minutes here and there.”

“I was presenting.”

“Oh. Shame, I must have missed that.”

“Did you hear about the bit of nastiness backstage?” John said, leaning forward with a conspiratorial look of gossip about him.

“Why would I have?”

“Marty and Chris Nolan got into a bit of a tiff. Words were exchanged.”

“Oh?” Sherlock said, hoping he sounded profoundly uninterested, when in fact he was keenly so. He was eyeballing a project that he hoped to pitch to Nolan next year.

“I don’t know what prompted it. But you know they’re really squabbling over who gets custody of Leo.”

“Clearly Marty has the greater claim. Leo’s only made one film with Chris. Leo is Marty’s new muse. Besides, Chris has been in bed with Christian for years.”

“That’s gone south. Christian boarded the one-way train to Crazytown last year. Chris would already have stepped back if Christian wasn’t signed for Batman. He’s taking up with Joe pretty strong as well, if you’ve noticed.”

“Joe is one to watch.”

“Yes, he is.” John took a breath. “Well. I asked you to dinner because I thought it’d be a good idea for us to get to know each other a little. We’re going to be working very closely together.”

Sherlock considered his words for a moment. The fact that he was considering them at all gave him a bit of pause; normally he’d just have out with whatever came to mind. “Not that I don’t appreciate your enthusiasm, John, but it’s not necessary for us to engage in some kind of bonding exercise to perform well together.”

“Maybe not, but it might make the whole experience more pleasant.” John shifted in his seat.

“You’re referring to the intimate scenes we’ll be required to perform.”

“Are you concerned about that?”

“No, should I be? I’d think you would have lost your horror of such things, with all the romantic material you’ve handled.”

“This is different. In those films I kiss the girl and the music swells and it fades out. It’s all very innocent. This is going to be real and raw and honest. I won’t have a lite-rock soundtrack to plaster over the awkward bits.” John shifted again. “And I admit, I’m concerned with what Ang said this morning about the rehearsals.”

“What about it?”

“He’s going to rehearse us separately?”

“Yes, I expected that.”

“You did? It surprised the hell out of me. What’s the point of rehearsing if we can’t rehearse together?”

“We’re shooting this film in sequence, as much as possible. Benjamin and Mark start out the film strangers, feeling their way around each other, coming to an understanding. Ang wants us to be in the same position. He doesn’t want us to be accustomed to one another when we start the shoot.”

John shook his head. “I don’t mind admitting it, Sherlock. I’m not used to working this way.”

“That’s because you’re used to working with pedestrian directors barely a step up from music videos who show up for the paycheck, tell the actors where to stand, sit in silence when they deliver the lines and yell ‘cut.’ Ang is an artist. He has real vision, vision he’ll want us to implement. We have to be in tune with him, not with each other. What is between our characters will evolve through their dialogue and their interaction, not ours. What does or does not exist in our interpersonal relationship is irrelevant.”

“I just don’t know if I can disconnect the way you seem to be able to. I have to access my emotions if I want to portray them.”

“Everyone works differently.”

“And I’ve worked with some visionary directors, I’ll have you know,” John said, his forehead creasing a little. “I worked with Altman. I was in _Short Cuts._ ”

“You were?” Sherlock said, struggling to remember.

“Yes. I got very good notice from that performance.”

“You couldn’t have had much time with Robert. Didn’t that film have something like fifty speaking parts?”

John smiled. “Yeah, it was a bit crowded at craft services. But Robert gave us all his full attention. He taught me more about acting in one day than I learned over a year of night-school drama classes.” He sighed. “He was a great director.”

“He was,” Sherlock agreed. “I regret that I never got to work with him.”

Silence fell. The waiter came to take their orders. Sherlock waved him away, to John’s obvious puzzlement. “You’re not eating?” he asked.

“John, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to socialize too much. As I said earlier, Ang wants our characters to evolve together. If he’s keeping us separated for rehearsals, I doubt he’d be thrilled to find us sharing a meal.”

“One meal doesn’t make us best mates,” John said.

“I’m sorry, I’ll have to bid you goodnight.”

John stared across at him. “You are going to be hard work, aren’t you?”

Sherlock smirked. “That depends entirely on you. Respect my methods and my boundaries and we’ll get along just fine.”

He crossed his arms on the table. “You don’t think I can do this part, do you? Your contempt for me and my career is dripping from every word you say. You could hardly believe it when I told you I’d been in an Altman film.”

Sherlock sighed. “The roles you perform aren’t what I’m accustomed to in my co-stars.”

“I am not the roles I perform, or the sorts of films I’ve been in,” John said, his voice taking on a bit of an edge.

“This film means a lot to me, John. I don’t want it bungled by bad casting decisions.”

“Like me, for instance?” Real anger was rising to the surface. Sherlock had known it was only a matter of time before the tiresome pride and hurt feelings mangled any chances they’d had for a cooperative working relationship.

He sighed. “Those decisions aren’t mine to make.”

“Is this some attempt at sabotage? Make me uncomfortable enough and I’ll quit the film so you can go get McAvoy or whoever else you want to play Mark?”

“Not in the slightest. I wouldn’t lower myself to such methods.”

John got up. “I may surprise you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock gave him a weary half-smile. “The curse of being me, John, is that I am rarely surprised.”

“We’ll just see about that.” John turned and left the restaurant.

Sherlock eyed John’s half-finished beer, and signaled the water. “Check, please.”

* * *

Key to Meta References for Chapter 2

1\. The Vincent Cassel joke derives from an infamous scene in “Ocean’s Twelve” when Cassel goes through an extensive sequence of odd contortionist Cirque du Soleil moves, practicing for a heist.  
2\. Toronto frequently stands in for New York in films, as shooting in Canada is much cheaper.  
3\. The actress Sherlock identifies as having taken a younger lover isn’t meant to be anyone in particular.  
4\. The actor John presents a Golden Globe to is Russell Crowe.  
5\. The couple that John talks with at the party is Paul Bettany and Jennifer Connelly. She worked with Ang Lee in “Hulk.” Her description of his working methods is drawn from the statements of actors who’ve done films with him.  
6\. The directors’ tiff John describes involved Martin Scorsese and Christopher Nolan, both of whom are known for forming close relationships with actors and working with them repeatedly. After his longtime collaboration with Robert DeNiro petered out, Scorsese seemed to have found a new partner in Leonardo DiCaprio, with whom he’s made four films. DiCaprio starred in Nolan’s “Inception” and Nolan’s relationship with Christian Bale is reportedly on the decline after Bale’s erratic behavior of late. The Joe referred to is Joseph Gordon-Levitt, who also starred in “Inception” and is also in “The Dark Knight Rises.”  
7\. Robert Altman did direct a film called “Short Cuts,” which is brilliant. Needless to say it did not star John Watson. 


	3. Chapter 3

_Author’s Note: I’d like to just clarify one thing: THIS IS NOT RPF. This story is in no way real-person fic. There are cameos by real people in it, yes, because of the setting of the story and it was easier than making up a whole bunch of fellow actors and directors to populate Hollywood (that’s harder than it sounds). But Sherlock and John are characters. Neither of them are meant to be skins over the actors who play them, whom I hope they do not much resemble except in the physical. Their personalities and backgrounds are meant to reflect their characters, not the personalities of the actors._

* * *

The following is important to this chapter so I’m putting it up front.

 _Quick Primer on Two-Shots_

A very common type of shot in films is what is referred to as a “two-shot,” or two characters in the same scene and both visible in the shot. Side by side, or across a table, or what have you. In film and television, a conversation carried out by two characters in a scene will typically be seen from a minimum of three angles: the master shot, which is the two-shot in which both characters are visible, and then single shots on each character as if you’re seeing them from over the other character’s shoulder. Editors will mix up these three shots to create the scene so that you see each character while they’re speaking. The scene in Angelo’s is an example of this; McGuigan mixed things up with some additional master shots through the window and such. It’s so common that we don’t really register it as a set of techniques, but it is.

The way this is typically filmed is as follows. The director will film the master shot, the entire conversation filmed in two-shot. Then they will film each character’s side of the conversation separately, first all of Actor A’s lines, then all of Actor B’s lines. These three shots are collectively referred to as the “coverage,” or the total film for the scene for the editor to select his shots from. If a director is particularly keen and if the set permits it, he may set up multiple cameras so that the coverage on each actor can be shot simultaneously. Actors love this because it decreases the number of times they must repeat a scene and it ensures that they’re always performing the scene with their co-star.

Because here’s the thing: you only need both actors for the master shot. Each actor’s individual coverage features only him, so the other actor need not be present and often he or she is not. The actor being filmed will usually have the other actor’s lines fed to him off-camera by the script supervisor. Sometimes the other actor will stick around when he is not being filmed to deliver his lines to assist his co-star with their performance. This is considered exceptionally nice and going above and beyond expectations, because it is easier to act a scene when you’re acting against lines being performed, as opposed to just read by the script supervisor. Tom Hanks is known for doing this, especially when the scene is emotional or demanding. It’s not exactly expected that actors will feed lines, but if it’s a hard scene, it wouldn’t win you any nice-guy points if you didn’t.

Here endeth the lesson.

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

John could never sleep well the night before the first day of shooting. Add to that the fact that he was in a strange place in a strange bed and doubly nervous about this particular film, and it all meant that when his alarm went off at 5:00 a.m. he’d only managed a couple of hours. _God, the makeup people are going to hate me. The DP’s going to have to smear Vaseline on the lens to keep me from looking like the Cryptkeeper._

He stared at himself in the mirror, having the usual anxiety battle he always had on his first day of a new job.

 _Come on. You survived boot camp. You can do this._

 _Boot camp was all-purpose humiliation. On a film set, it’s personal and directed._

 _It’s just another script._

 _Oh no, it isn’t. This is THE script. The one we all wait our whole careers for. The one I became an actor hoping someday to get. The chance to bring something real and meaningful and yeah, maybe even a little world-changing to life on the screen._

 _You have the chops. You know you do._

 _Nobody else knows it. Certainly not my co-star._

 _Give him a few days, he’ll come around. He isn’t stupid, and he values competence._

He heard the door to his apartment open and Harry come in, humming under her breath. “Good morning,” she said, coming into the bedroom and handing him coffee. “Am I in time for the first-day anxiety attack?”

John smiled. “Just getting a good run-up on it now.”

“You know, usually I give you the whole don’t-be-daft speech, but this time you might actually have reason to be nervous.”

“Gosh, thanks ever so.”

Harry slung her arm around his shoulders and met his eyes in the mirror. “You’re going to be brilliant, you know. Seriously.”

“I don’t know, Harry. Will anybody buy it?”

“Buy what?”

“You know. Him, me, a couple.”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

John sighed. “Does he have to be so intimidatingly gorgeous all the time?”

“You’re not Quasimodo, luv.”

“I know. But I’m the bloke you take home to Mum and show off to the family. He’s the bloke you drool over from across the room and never get up the stones to actually talk to.”

“I think that’s part of the point. Johnny, this casting wasn’t done on a whim. I think they wanted tension there. They didn’t want two pretty boys, or two boys next door. They wanted you and him.” She patted his shoulder. “Driver’s coming for us in an hour. Better get a shower.”

“It’s the hospital today, right?”

“The waiting room is the first scene up.”

“He wasn’t kidding about shooting in sequence, was he?”

“Nope. It’s right down the line, although some of the outdoor stuff may get shuffled about if the weather doesn’t cooperate.”

“I can’t imagine the weather in Toronto in March being anything other than delightful.”

Harry laughed. “I’ll wait for you in the living room.”

One hour later, John rode in the back of a studio-hired car with Harry, watching the still-dark streets of Toronto flow by. Everything about this film would be a departure from his usual jobs, and not just his part in it. The director had made the somewhat unusual decision to film entirely in practical locations around Toronto. No soundstages. It made logistics more difficult, but it lent a sense of verity to the scenes that couldn’t be replicated. Ang had sat him and Sherlock down after the read-through and explained his vision for the film’s look and mood.

“Stark and minimal,” he’d said. “So that the feeling, it stands out. Desaturated of color. No soft lights, so don’t ask,” he’d said, wagging his finger at them. “Music, very quiet. Maybe no score, no decision there. All things are you, and you,” he’d said, pointing at each of them in turn. “Sherlock, you are like moon. Cold, bright, remote. Far above. Inaccessible. John, you are earth. Steady, warm – accessible. For us we must bring moon to the earth, and raise mountains. The peaks and valleys, like snow caps.”

Sherlock had nodded, as if he understood completely. John had nodded too, even while all he could think was, _I have no idea what that means._

The first couple of days he’d be doing double duty. He was playing not only Mark, but Mark’s twin brother James, who was in the hospital having been just diagnosed with cancer. Sherlock’s character was James’ doctor and also his neighbor, and his first meeting with Mark took place while James was in surgery. John eyed the schedule again. Three days until The Scene. This scene at the read-through, even with everyone just marking their lines, not really performing yet, had a lot of the crew exchanging worried looks. He sensed that everybody was dubious about his ability to play this scene, in which Mark came to his brother’s loft and found that he’d killed himself rather than face a slow death from cancer. This was the scene that kicked off the plot. It drove friendly, open Mark to a dark place and forced aloof Benjamin into an unwitting nurturing role. It led to the malpractice suit and Mark’s family drama and Benjamin’s self-destructive behavior and everything that followed.

This scene. This was what he was being paid for. This scene had to have emotional weight, it had to feel real. It couldn’t be overplayed or underplayed. The dialogue was minimal. He’d be doing all the heavy lifting himself, with his face and his body and all the tools he had at his disposal as an actor. Tools he hadn’t had much reason to call upon over the last ten years of commercial films.

This was the scene he’d been waiting for his whole career. And he had to pull it off having been on the shoot for a mere three days.

They pulled up to the hospital where the day’s scenes would be shot. The first scene of the day was the first scene of the film. Mark and Benjamin meeting in the waiting room, strangers, while James, the character who connected them, was in surgery.   
John climbed out of his car and was herded over to the makeup trailer by one of the production assistants. Sherlock was already there, reading a Kindle while the makeup artist worked on him. John sat in the other chair, determined to start the day off on the right foot. They’d been cordial at the read-through, but no more than that. And then they both went off for a week of separate rehearsals.

“Good morning,” he said, smiling brightly

Sherlock glanced at him, a quick up-and-down. “You didn’t sleep.”

He didn’t bother to ask how he knew that. “I always have trouble sleeping the night before the first day of shooting.”

“Anxiety is counterproductive to a good performance. It makes an actor indulge his more obvious instincts and reject subtler choices.”

“Well, if you’d be good enough to show me where the ‘off’ switch is on my anxiety, I’ll just shut it down.”

Sherlock gave him a withering look and went back to his book. John sat quietly while his makeup was applied. The woman working on him tutted over his tired-looking eyes but didn’t comment. John watched her work in the mirror, getting that familiar sinking feeling over the sight of his aging face. _How long till I’m getting Dad roles?_ he wondered.

By the time he and Sherlock were in makeup and costume and on the set, the crew had the shot set up and lit. Their stand-ins were sitting on the long couch where they’d play the scene. The cameras were set up to shoot the master.

“Rehearsal!” Which really just meant a run-through to check that everything was ready.

John sat down at his end of the couch, mentally shifting himself to Mark, the character he’d spent most of the past week cementing in his mind. They walked through the scene, marking the dialogue, hitting the marks.

And then it was time. First photography of the film. Ang called ‘action,’ and they were off.

It took three hours to shoot the scene. Ang shot three different master angles. The final angle was a moving dolly shot; they did the entire conversation in one take. Ang called ‘cut,’ and everyone applauded. John took a deep breath, adrenaline surging. He tossed a smile at Sherlock. “That felt great,” he said.

Sherlock gave him a perfunctory nod. “Satisfactory.”

Clara, the first AD, stomped over. “Reset for coverage on Benjamin!” she called. John got up so they could reposition the camera where he’d been sitting. He moved over to the folding chairs set up near the monitors.

“I’ll feed him lines,” he said to Ang. The director turned, regarded him in silence for a moment, then nodded and motioned to Clara.

“I’ll get you a chair,” she said, winking at him.

Sherlock got up and walked around a bit, stretching his legs while the crew reset the lights. Sally, his PA, brought him a cup of tea and they stood off to the side, conferring. The AD called for places and Sherlock walked off-camera. They shot him entering the room a few times, then he took a seat on the couch.

John sat down on a chair next to the camera, in roughly the same relative position he’d been in for the master shot. Sherlock saw him and frowned. “Oh, are you feeding me lines?” he said.

“Yes, of course. It’s an important scene.”

Sherlock seemed a bit surprised by this. “Ah. Well – thank you, that’s good of you.”

“My pleasure.”

They played the scene again over five takes. The cameras were repositioned and they did it again, four takes this time, until Ang was satisfied. “Reset for coverage on Mark!” the AD called, and the crew swung into action again.

John sat down so his makeup artist could touch him up. Harry brought him a coffee and half a sandwich. “He’s staying,” she murmured. John looked past her to where Sherlock was sitting in his director’s chair, talking on his mobile.

“Huh. I guess after I did it, he might look like a wanker if he didn’t.”

Harry shook her head. “You don’t understand. He doesn’t do that. I was just talking to Sally. She said he’s never fed lines for anybody. Not even if they asked him to.”

“Don’t I feel special.” John sighed. “I wonder if he’ll get all sulky after we finish this scene. He won’t be needed much for the next two days. I know plenty of actors who’d whinge that they could have moved this scene later in the schedule so they didn’t have to shoot one scene and then cool their heels.”

“I don’t think he will. Not based on what I’m hearing.”

“What are you hearing?”

“Did you know that he doesn’t insert any stipulations in his contracts? None?”

“Seriously? None?” John thought of himself as fairly easygoing, but even he had a few contractual demands, one of which had to do with Harry being his on-set PA. The others had to do with some baseline requirements he had about accommodations and such. Nothing extraordinary, but they were there in his contracts.

“He has this reputation as a diva, but he’s only demanding about the creative process. He doesn’t care how nice his trailer is or what brand of bottled water they give him. Sally says all he cares about is the work. How did she put it? The rest is transport.”

John sighed. “I admit I thought he’d be a prima donna. You know. Throw a fit if he doesn’t have a particular flavor of organic yoghurt or something.”

“Quite the opposite, it seems.”

“Well, that’s just great. Just when I thought he couldn’t get any _more_ intimidating.”

* * *

After lunch was called, Sherlock packed up his script and notes and prepared to head out. “Sherlock!” John called, hurrying over.

 _Oh good Lord, what now?_ “Yes?”

“I just wanted to say thanks for sticking around for my coverage.”

Sherlock shifted his shoulders back. He couldn’t say exactly why he’d chosen to do so. John had done so for him, but he was hardly the first actor who’d made the gesture and it had not inspired reciprocity in him. “I hope it was helpful.”

“It was, most definitely. I felt really good about the scene, don’t you?”

God, the man was like a puppy, wanting his belly rubbed. But in fact, Sherlock did feel good about the scene. He felt even the slightest tiny beginnings of optimism that this film might not be sunk by this man’s hamfisted acting after all. But he didn’t wish to get too far ahead of himself. He could only control his own performance. “It was something to build on,” he said.

John deflated slightly. Clearly that wasn’t the ringing endorsement he’d been hoping for. “Well – I guess I won’t be seeing you for a few days.”

“Probably not.” Sherlock would be filming a few scenes that featured only Benjamin in the interim, but by and large he’d be on standby until after James’ suicide.

“I’ll be pulling double duty. Did you see the actor they got to do the body stand-in for James? He’s great, really ripping. Looks just like me. From the back, anyway.”

“I’d expect no less. Good afternoon, John.” He nodded, cutting off the conversation, turned and left. Sally trailed after him, making disgruntled noises under her breath. “do you have a comment you’d like to share, Sally?”

“You could be a little nicer to the man, you know.”

“I’ve never concerned myself with my level of niceness before and this is the first time you’ve remarked on it. Still cultivating your little crush, I see?”

“That isn’t the point. Cut the man some slack.”

“Why should I?”

“That scene was great and you know it. You just can’t bear to admit it.”

“Anyone can do well with a scene like that. Strangers meeting, instant hostility, a point of common concern. It’s like an acting school workshop scene. Nothing he did would cause me to revise my previous assessment of his abilities.”

“Sherlock, I swear…”

“Sally,” he said, tired of the conversation. “Could you bring me that script that Terrence sent over? Thanks. I’ll be in my trailer.” She gave him a this-isn’t-over look and headed off to get a car back to their hotel. Sherlock walked the rest of the way back to his trailer, its calm silence beckoning him.

He sighed, kicked off his shoes and sat down in the thankfully comfortable chair to read until he was needed again.

* * *

Sally came in with take-out around ten o’clock. Day Two of the shoot was in the can, and Sherlock was impatient. He was eager to get into the meat of the story, his relationship with Mark, his crisis of confidence, his malpractice case. For now, he was studying his script, walking around his hotel room, looking for the beats, going over the pacing. “I brought you some garlic tofu,” she said, plopping the bags down on the coffee table.

“Not hungry,” he said, distracted. “Where’ve you been all day?”

“I went to the set to watch the shoot.” She put her hands on her hips. “Sherlock, you really ought to be seeing what’s going on there.”

That got his attention. “Why? Is it that bad? Oh god, he’s not doing the evil-twin thing, is he?”

“I just…” She shook her head. “I should get you the dailies. You need to see this. What he’s doing.”

“What’s he doing?”

“I swear, if I didn’t know, I’d think they’d found two different actors who just happen to look incredibly alike to play Mark and James. He’s – he’s amazing. I can’t even. Everyone’s talking about it.”

“Of course they’re all impressed. They’re paid to be impressed.”

“No they are not, and you know it. Film crews have seen and heard it all, they are the opposite of easily impressed. It’s like…” Sally searched for words. “When he plays James, he’s almost the same, but not quite. Just different enough to make it hugely obvious. And he’s conveying the love and closeness between the brothers so well, you can really feel it.”

“Sally, I’m surprised at you. It’s not like you to be so – gushy.”

“You’d be gushing too if you were actually watching your co-star act. And I do mean act. This man can _act._ I don’t know how he’s been doing commercial work for ten years but he’s been hiding his light under a bloody bushel.”

“All right, I get the idea!”

“But you don’t believe me.”

“Sally, I refuse to believe that _John Watson_ has been concealing some spectacular dramatic gift for no apparent reason while seeming content to star in insipid date movies. It defies all logic.”

“He’s doing the big scene tomorrow. Will you come and watch?”

“Why should I? I know how he’ll play it. It’ll be a lot of big, showy emotion and wailing and rending of garments and a very convenient Oscar clip. It’ll be obvious and it’ll be accessible. It’ll impress Middle America and it’ll won’t make anybody feel it too keenly. That’s our job, isn’t it? To communicate the feeling, but not too much? To show the emotions, but not too much? It’s all a caricature and that’s what he’ll be.”

“Come and watch. I want you to watch it. You know I can make your life miserable.”

Sherlock sighed. He’d never hear the end of it if he didn’t. “All right, I’ll come. Are you satisfied?”

“Yes. Very. Now will you eat some of this tofu, please? I’m starting to be able to see your ribs again.”

* * *

The Big Scene, as the cast and crew insisted on calling it, was technically being shot on a set. An office building that they were using as Mark’s law firm had an empty suite that they’d redressed to look like James’s flat when the location manager couldn’t find a real one that was suitable. The advantage was one of space. The empty office space didn’t have the confining walls of an actual flat, so the cameras had room to move. The other advantage of extra space was clear as soon as Sherlock walked onto the set. It seemed like everyone in the cast and crew had turned up to watch this scene, whether they were needed that day or not. He slunk into the back of the room, not wanting John to know that he was there.

He carefully maneuvered himself to the monitors, keeping himself out of sight. John and Ang were on the set with the stand-in who was playing James for the moment. Sherlock kept quiet and tried to stay out of the way, not wishing to call attention to himself. Ang was moving away to his chair near the camera. The DP was moving into position and John was clearly preparing himself to play the scene.

Everyone was quieting down, going still. Clara called for more quiet. John positioned himself outside the door to the bedroom. He’d be filmed entering, and then it was all him.

Sherlock found himself holding his breath, a little frisson of nervousness crawling into his belly. Ang called for action. The cameras rolled. John entered the room, and Mark saw his brother’s body, a gaudy spray of blood across the wall, the gun still in the man’s hand.

Sherlock waited. He waited for the wailing, for the exclamations, for the cries unto the heavens. For the tears, for the blubbering, for the exhortations and curses and predictable histrionics.

All he heard was silence. You could have heard a pin drop. It was so silent that he could hear the camera’s machinery. He watched the monitors.

Mark walked forward, more or less calmly, but there was a subtle hitch in his steps that wasn’t obvious. He took the gun from James’s hand. He stepped back and unloaded the magazine with quick, sure movements. He dropped the gun and mag on the floor. He walked. Two steps, pause. Two steps, pause. His eyes were stuttering back and forth to James’ ruined face.

The realization dawned on Sherlock that John was not going to go for the Oscar clip. He wasn’t talking. He wasn’t wailing. Sherlock watched the scene unfold and what he saw was something he didn’t have words to describe. It was the cold, blank grip of shock and the unraveling of a man’s world. It was shown to him in small, quick gestures and fleeting glimpses of expressions by an actor who was clearly totally in control, while giving the impression that he was feeling his way through. It was utterly, wrenchingly real, and for a few moments, Sherlock forgot that he was watching a performance. When Mark finally did begin to crumble and the tears came, it was earned, and it was horrible. He heard people behind him sniffling.

It went on for several minutes. There were a few lines of dialogue, very few. John improvised a few more. Sherlock stared at the monitors, excitement growing in his chest.

 _This movie is going to be like a bomb going off._

Ang finally called cut. The entire assembly broke into spontaneous applause. John straightened up, the cloak of Mark falling away from him, and beamed a wide smile. Sherlock looked around for Sally, caught her eye and beckoned her over. “Well?” she said, eyebrow arched. Sherlock wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction.

“I want to see his dailies from the last two days. Can you get your hands on some?”

“Give me a couple of hours.”

“Fine.” He glanced over to where John and Ang were once again deep in conference. “I’m going to slip out before he sees me.”

“Didn’t I tell you? Did you _see_ that?”

“I saw.”

“And?”

Sherlock sighed. “Get me some dailies. Please, Sally.” He walked out and headed for his car. They’d be shooting this scene for awhile longer but he couldn’t watch anymore. He feared that if he did, he might find out what he already suspected: that John Watson might just be a better actor than he was.

* * *

Watching the dailies of John’s work over the past few days, as Mark and as James, Sherlock experienced a strange cascading series of emotions. The first was astonishment at what he was seeing, coupled with the sheer exhilaration at seeing the craft to which he’d dedicated his life being practiced with such understated skill. The second was envy that he couldn’t tell how on earth he was doing it. The third was relief, that John’s acting wouldn’t ruin this film.

The fourth was fury.

He’d go. Right now. He didn’t care that it was after ten o’clock and a bit late for a social call. He’d go and see the man and talk to him and ask him how this was possible. He’d demand answers. He would be satisfied. He stood up and stabbed his arms into his coat sleeves, stalked to the door and yanked it open.

John Watson was standing on the threshold, hand raised to knock. His jaw was set and his eyes were blazing. “John!” Sherlock said, for lack of anything better to say.

John pushed past him and walked in. Sherlock retreated back into the flat, a bit adrift now that his mission had been subverted. “I know you think I’m a hack,” John said, without preamble, his hands on his hips. “I know you have nothing but contempt for me and my career. But just where do you get off asking for my dailies? It’s not enough that you clearly have no confidence in me, now you have to check up on my work? You’ve got some nerve, Sherlock Holmes. I’ve looked up to you, you know. My whole career. I thought you were fantastic, bloody brilliant. No one else could do what you could do. The chance to work with you made me want this film even more. I’d heard that you don’t think anyone is as good as you are, but I thought, surely he can’t be that bad. Well, I was wrong. You’re _worse!_ ”

“I’ve got some nerve?” Sherlock said. “ _I’ve_ got it? What about you, John Watson? You let me prattle on about your films and your career and our performances, and you knew the whole time. You knew what you could do, and you barely spoke up in your own defense. You just let me go on thinking you were a talentless prole when you bloody knew better!”

John took a step back, caught off guard. “Wh…what?”

“That scene you shot today. The scene everyone’s been mad afraid of.”

John’s eyes widened. “You were there? You saw it?”

“I was there. I don’t know what I saw. That’s why I asked for your dailies, because I needed to suss it out. I needed to suss _you_ out.”

“I have no idea what you’re saying to me right now.”

“I’m saying that what I saw you do today was one of the finest pieces of acting I’ve ever seen in my life, and I have seen some damn fine acting over the years, John. So now you tell me how it is possible that you have been capable of that level of performance all this time, and you let the world think – you let _me_ think – that you were just a journeyman working for a paycheck?”

John put up his hands. “You thought I was good today, just so we’re clear on that.”

“Good? _Good?_ Great God, man. You know what you did, you were there.”

“All right, so you thought I was good, and – you’re _pissed?_ I thought you’d be relieved!”

“I am relieved. I’m relieved and impressed and blindingly envious and I am definitely pissed.”

“How does that work, exactly? You’re pissed that I actually _can_ act my way out of a paper sack?”

“I don’t appreciate being made a fool of!”

Watson shook his head. “Oh, of course. Because me and my career are all about _you._ ”

“No, you cracking great idiot, it’s not about me. It’s about _what we do._ How could you? How could you slum in these bargain-basement movies and let your abilities atrophy, unused and unappreciated? You’ve denied the world the performances that you could have given, you’ve denied the rest of us the chance to share a screen with you, you’ve denied _yourself_ the chance to stretch and explore who you are as an artist! Do you know how many actors work their whole careers to be able to do what you seem to be able to do naturally? You are spitting in the face of every single one of them, including me, when you don’t do everything in your power to use your talents effectively. It’s an insult. It’s _offensive._ ”

“Oh, now I’ve _offended_ you with my career. This just gets better and better.”

“What was it, John? Was it laziness? Taking the easy scripts so you didn’t have to work hard? Acting with lesser performers so you would always be the best actor in the room?”

John rounded on him, his face set in anger. “Shut up, you privileged toff. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Then _explain_ it to me.”

He sighed and ran a hand through his already-mussed hair. “All right, yeah. I can act. I know it. I’ve always known it. But you have no idea where I come from, and you can’t know what motivates me. You’re from a posh family, public school, the works. I’m not. My parents were so poor that my brothers and sisters and I sometimes had to rummage in bins to find food. We squatted in half-empty council flats and watched the people around us die from overdoses or a case of the sniffles that turned into pneumonia. The Army was the only way out for me. I’d still be in it if I hadn’t gotten shot. I don’t know what drew me to the drama classes but that was where I found out that I had a marketable skill. And that’s all it was to me, marketable. A meal ticket. A way that I could make sure no one in my family would want for anything, especially my parents, who aren’t well. At first the work was exciting, sure. I wanted to show what I could do. But when that first big paycheck came, and I could buy my parents a house and full-time help and send my nieces and nephews to school and give my sister a job to keep her away from the bottle – well, all that mattered was making sure it all kept going. So I took the first jobs that were offered and the ones with the biggest paychecks. If you think I’ve sold out or betrayed my talent then frankly, I don’t give a fuck. If my family is comfortable and taken care of then I’ll gladly sell out.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I almost didn’t take this film, you know. Soderbergh offered me a part in that Savannah ensemble drama half the town is in. It paid better than this does. For the first time in my career, I chose the material over the paycheck, and it wasn’t easy. It was a close thing. You know what tipped it over for me? You. I knew that you were attached. And I couldn’t turn that down. It scared the living shit out of me to take this risk but I did it because to work with someone like you is something I’d long ago given up on. So don’t tell me that I’m not worthy of this script or your esteemed presence and don’t you _dare_ tell me that you’re _offended_ by the choices I’ve made, which incidentally are none of your fucking business.”

He fell silent. Sherlock just sat there and stared. For an excruciating stretch of quiet they stood in tableau, eyes locked, daring each other to speak first.

“You need for this film to succeed,” Sherlock said. It wasn’t a question.

“Badly.”

“So do I.” He lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. “Shall we get to work, then?”

“Oh God, yes.”

* * *

 _Key to Some Filmmaking Terminology_

1\. AD – Assistant Director. There are usually more than one, ranked in a hierarchy. They do a lot of the day-to-day grunt work of organizing the shoot.  
2\. DP – Director of Photography, also known as the cinematographer. A close partner to the director, the DP is responsible for the look and feel of the film being shot.  
3\. Dailies – the raw footage shot over a single day of filming, often runs into ten-plus hours. Dailies are screened by the director and producer and sometimes the actors over the course of the shoot and are sent back to the studio periodically so they can monitor the production.

Only one significant meta reference in this chapter. The bit about Ang’s semi-nonsensical directions about mountains and snow caps to Sherlock and John is drawn from an interview with Jake Gyllenhaal about the filming of “Brokeback Mountain.” He said that at one point Ang told him and Anne Hathaway that “you go together like milk and water,” and that everyone was nodding like they got it and meanwhile he was thinking “I have no idea what that means.”

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 _Film Shoot: Week Two_

“Morning,” Harry said, joining Sally at the craft services table, as had become their habit.

“All right, then?”

“All right. You seen the Wonder Twins? John left without me this morning.”

“They’re over there,” Sally said, nodding off to her right.

Harry looked and saw Sherlock and John standing under a tree near where the first scene of the day was being set up, heads together, conferring intently. That was more or less their habitual pose these days. Two weeks into the shoot and everyone was still wondering what the devil had happened. They’d begun the shoot keeping their distance from each other, Sherlock aloof and remote as usual, and then overnight they had suddenly become thick as thieves. They spent long evenings together running lines and talking characters and whatever else actors did when they were shooting a film, and it was now standard procedure for them to feed lines to each other during coverage. Their trailers sat empty and unused for the most part. If one of them was on the set, they were both on the set.

As Harry watched him, John glanced over and saw her. He raised a hand in greeting. She nodded back, and he returned his attention to whatever he and Sherlock were talking about. “Chins’ll be wagging,” Sally muttered.

“About what?”

“You know. Them. There’ll be talk.”

Harry snorted. “There’s never anything but. Anyway, John’s straight. Ish.”

“So Sarah Sawyer isn’t his beard after all?” Sally said, smirking.

“I’ll claim diplomatic immunity on answering that question. What about Sherlock?”

“He’s equally bored by both genders. I’ve never known him to fancy anyone, not since I’ve been his PA, and that’s three years now. God, has it really been that long?” Sally was watching Sherlock and John. “Then again, I’ve never seen him voluntarily spend this much time with anyone, man or woman, and actually seem to enjoy it.”

Clara, the first AD, wandered over. Harry stood up a little straighter. “All right, Clara!” she said. _Goddammit, don’t sound so eager._

Clara smiled. “Morning, Harry. You all seen Anderson?”

“Not yet. Why?”

“He’s bringing the screenwriter on set today. They’re finally going to settle on what the blazes we’re calling this film.”

“Huh. Just when I was getting used to ‘Untitled Film of Gayness,’” Harry said. Sally snorted laughter.

Clara gave her a look. “I know that’s going around the set, but don’t let Ang hear you say it. He’ll get irritated.”

“Oh, I won’t. But having a decent title will be a relief. Give you something to write on the clappers, anyway.”

“How’s the War of the Hydrangeas?” Sally asked, smiling.

Clara rolled her eyes. “Fucking hydrangeas. If I never see another hydrangea in my life it will be too soon. Do you know what the set dressers have to go through to get enough hydrangeas here in March? It’s not exactly the big flower season. Anderson is bitching about the expense but Ang insists. It’s a symbol from the screenplay, he wants them in the background, somewhere on all the sets. Sometimes they just get ideas in their heads and there’s no budging them. I tell him that nobody will ever notice the sodding hydrangeas but no, it’s significant, it’s a symbol of Benjamin and Mark’s delicate and beautiful love and the fragility of life and blah blah blah.”

Harry nodded in sympathy. “When John was shooting _Holiday, With Nuts_ in Martha’s Vineyard, the director insisted that nobody wear the colour blue but John. It was pointless, nobody ever noticed, as far as I know he never gave a reason why, it was just this _thing._ It was like he thought if he did something pointless and pretentious he’d suddenly be the next Aronofsky.”

“Ang doesn’t need help achieving auteur status,” Clara said. “It’s just not in anybody’s dream job description to hunt down the last hydrangea in Ontario.”

“Oh, here’s Anderson,” Sally said, perking up a bit. “That must be the screenwriter with him.”

Harry watched Anderson, the line producer, approach with a woman. She was small and slender, with bright eyes and an eager expression. “Hi, Sally,” Anderson said, the hint of a smile touching his usually-surly mouth. _Ah ha, that’s interesting,_ Harry thought. Then he was all seriousness again. “Clara, this is Molly Hooper, our screenwriter. Molly, this is Clara Denbrough, the first assistant director.”

“Nice to meet you,” Molly said, shaking hands with a bright smile.

“Likewise.”

“Can you look after her for a while? Introduce her around? Ang is in a conference call with Jim and I’ve got to deal with the funeral extras.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks,” Anderson said. He tossed Sally another shy glance and headed off.

Molly looked so excited that Harry was afraid she might vibrate out of her skin. “So Molly, welcome to the set. Writers don’t always find it terribly satisfying, though.”

“Everybody’s been really nice. I’m just excited to be here and see all of this happening.” She kept glancing over to where Sherlock and John were now just standing around, waiting for the scene.

Harry smiled. “Would you like to meet Sherlock and John?”

Molly nodded, grinning. “I’d love to.”

“I’ll get them. Wait here.” Harry trotted across the parking lot to the tree where their lead actors were both earning their very generous salaries by staring into space.

“What’s on?” John asked, seeing her approach.

“The screenwriter’s here. She’d like to meet you. You know, if you’re not too busy or anything.”

Sherlock gave her The Eyebrow. “Your PA is awfully cheeky, John. You ought to fire her.”

John sighed theatrically. “She’s family. So I suffer in silence.”

“Oh, you’re hilarious, both of you. Come on. Put on your Mr. Nice Actor faces, especially _you,_ ” she said, pointing at Sherlock.

“I am always nice. I am the soul of niceness and civility and all things admirable. I know because it said so in Empire magazine.”

They followed her back to where Molly was standing with Sally. Harry smothered a smirk as they approached. If this were a cartoon, Molly would have had big sparkly hearts where her eyes ought to be as she gazed at Sherlock.

“This is Molly Hooper. Molly, this is John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes.” Molly spared John a cursory glance as she shook his hand, her attention rather fixated on Sherlock. John exchanged an amused look with Harry.

“Gosh, it’s amazing to meet you,” Molly said. “I’m such a huge fan.”

Sherlock managed what might be called a charming smile. “Thank you. We’re all very excited about your script.”

Molly seemed to regain her composure and remember her role here. She wasn’t an autograph-seeking fan, she was the screenwriter. “Thanks,” she said. “I was happy to sell it at all, and then to have this director and especially both of you starring in it. I keep waiting to wake up.”

“This is your first script?” John asked.

“Not the first one I’ve written, but definitely the first one I’ve sold,” Molly said, laughing.

Sherlock looked her up and down. “You don’t make your living writing. You’re – oh, you’re a doctor. I’d say…forensic pathologist? You live alone, you write as a creative outlet and stress reliever. You have two dogs. Same breed, something small. You also jog, but habitually you do so after dark, when it’s cooler.”

“Don’t mind him,” John said, seeing Molly’s stunned expression. “We don’t usually let him out of his room when there are normal people about.”

“But that’s…”

“How’d I do?” Sherlock asked.

“Spot on! Everything! How did…”

“Oh, please don’t ask how he knew,” Sally interjected. “Because he will tell you, in great detail, more than you wanted.”

“You also don’t think John is right for this role,” Sherlock went on, as if Sally hadn’t spoken.

Molly reddened and glanced at John, who didn’t seem fazed. “Oh, that’s not true, I…I’m sure you’re just right,” she said, quickly.

“It’s okay,” John said. “You wouldn’t be the first to doubt it. Half the town is waiting to see me bodge this up. Sherlock wasn’t too chuffed at first either, were you?” he said, elbowing Sherlock.

“True. I’m afraid I allowed preconceived notions to interfere with my observations. But I can assure you now that a lot of people will be eating their words.” Harry looked at her brother, who was shuffling a bit, his ears reddening and the corners of his mouth twitching at the praise.

“I know you had Sherlock in mind to play Benjamin. Who’d you imagine for Mark?” Sally asked.

“I thought maybe Jeremy Renner?” Molly said, sounding a tad unsure, as if this might be a breach of etiquette.

John nodded. “Oh, well spotted. He’d have been good.”

“He turned it down,” Sherlock said, flatly.

John looked at him, surprised. “Really? I didn’t know it had been offered to him. Why’d he refuse?”

“The cited reason was scheduling conflicts. I suspect the true reason had something to do with the fact that his date bunged a drink in my face at the Governor’s Ball two years ago.”

Everyone laughed. “So, do we have a title yet for this picture?” Sally asked.

“Oh! Yes, we do,” Molly said, perking up. “We settled it last night.” She paused for suspense, a devilish little grin on her face as everyone waited with bated breath. “The film will be titled _To a Stranger._ ”

“Hmm,” Sherlock said, thoughtful. “I like it. It’s – evocative.”

“Walt Whitman?” John said, smiling.

Molly’s grin widened. “Yes! You know that poem?”

John nodded. “ _Passing stranger, you do not know how longingly I look upon you. You must be he that I was seeking._ ”

“It’s one of my favorites. It seemed appropriate. I love the last line.”

“ _I am to see to it that I do not lose you,_ ” John recited, quietly. Sherlock was looking at him, eyebrow arched. “What? I like poetry!”

“You are full of surprises, John.”

“Just because you probably couldn’t tell Eliot from Robert Frost. A study of literature and poetry is a valuable thing for an actor. And don’t give me that tired old ‘everything about humanity can be found in the works of Shakespeare’ rubbish.”

“I had no intention of giving you any such – rubbish,” Sherlock said, looking insulted at the suggestion.

“Are they always like this?” Molly said, leaning toward Harry.

“Lately, yes.”

“So I guess you two have known each other for awhile?” Molly asked them.

They both looked at her blankly. “Not really,” John said.

“We met at the first read-through,” Sherlock said.

“Really? Because it seems like you’ve been mates for years.”

They exchanged a look, tiny smiles crossing their lips. “Sometimes it sure _feels_ like years,” John grumbled, but his eyes were twinkling.

Clara trotted over. “Walkthrough, lads.”

“That’s our cue,” John said. “It was lovely to meet you, Molly. I’m sure we’ll have time to talk later. Sherlock and I both have things we’d like to discuss with you about the characters, and a few lines we have some ideas for.”

Molly nodded. “I’ll look forward to it.”

They set off toward the setup. “You came on an exciting day,” Harry said.

“Oh?”

“They’re shooting the park scene today. Benjamin and Mark’s first kiss.”

Molly actually jumped up and down a little, like a kid. “Oh, I was hoping I might get to see that while I’m here!”

“What’s it like?” Harry asked. “Seeing characters you created coming to life, right in front of you?” Harry had never written anything in her life. Her exposure to the arts was strictly through John. But she imagined that it must be something, having made up a person out of whole cloth and then to see an actor making that person walk and talk and breathe.

Molly smiled, her eyes going a little moist. “I can’t begin to describe it.”

* * *

John was nervous. It had been a long time since he’d been nervous before a kissing scene. He’d done so damned many of them, he’d lost track. He’d got off with what felt like half the women in Hollywood. No matter what smirky questions journalists asked during junkets, it wasn’t sexy. It was something you had to repeat a dozen times from five or six angles , not to mention that you were kissing someone you may or may not be attracted to and there was a giant horde of sweaty crew members standing around.

But this was different. He didn’t know why, but it was. It was not his first time kissing a man. He hadn’t ever kissed one for a role, but he’d kissed a few in real life.

Not one like Sherlock. Sherlock was a walking counterexample. He was a brilliant actor who didn’t care about emotional awareness or character motivations. He had a genius intellect but didn’t know who the Prime Minister was. He despised inactivity but had chosen a profession that was 95% waiting around.

And most intrusively, for John anyway, he was an impossibly dishy man who seemed totally uninterested in sex or relationships.

John liked to think he had a pretty good handle on who he was and what he wanted. He wanted to meet someone special – someday – and settle down and have a family. This special someone had always, in his mind, been a woman. But he couldn’t deny that Sherlock twigged something in his gut, something he was resolutely ignoring. It didn’t help that Sherlock had apparently decided that John was the one person in the world he could be comfortable around, and the only person he would treat like a human being instead of an empty head on legs.

He wasn’t worried about the kiss. The whole “on-screen kiss sparks something off-screen” thing was more or less an invention of the public. Actors knew that if sparks flew off-screen, it wasn’t because of something that happened while shooting a scene. It was because of the extensive time you spent with co-stars and crew while the shoot was going on. He’d heard a fellow actor once say that actors aren’t paid to act. The acting, they do for free. They get paid to _wait._ It was true. Hours spent between shots, sitting on your duff in your trailer or at craft services. If you were sociable and got on with your co-stars, some pretty intense friendships could grow. Along with more-than-friendships.

Surprising as it was, John felt like he and Sherlock had, indeed, become friends. Sally herself had confirmed this just the night before. He’d been packing up his bag in his trailer when she’d come knocking. “Sherlock wants to know if you’d bring over that book you were discussing earlier when you go to his place tonight,” she said.

“Oh. All right.” Sally had just sort of stared at him. “What?”

“Nothing, I’m just – confused.”

“By what?”

“You know, he’s never had a friend before.”

John didn’t know what to say. He was as bowled over by the idea that a man like Sherlock had never had a friend as by the idea that he himself might now be one, after knowing him for only two weeks. “What about you?”

“Me? I work for him. I put up with his shite and give it back when he deserves it. But I don’t kid myself. I just can’t suss out what’s different about you. Lots of people have tried. Nobody ever got handed the keys to the kingdom, not like you have.”

He’d laughed, trying to make light of it. “Maybe it’s because I didn’t try.”

But Sally had gotten a thoughtful look at that. “Maybe.”

The fact was that he didn’t really have any close friends, either. There was Sarah, but he barely saw her anymore except when they did their dog-and-pony show for the press. She had Anthea and now the baby and her own career. It wasn’t like they spent hours together talking about life. Harry always said that the test of who you considered a good friend was if you were in a wreck at four a.m., who would you ring first?

He pondered this question, and was forced to come to the conclusion that right now? He’d ring Sherlock.

Sherlock was costumed and made up as Benjamin and looked particularly fit today. John looked down at himself. Mark was a smart dresser, much more so than he himself was (being the jeans-and-jumper sort) and he’d been costumed in a suit and a camel-colored topcoat, since it was meant to be midday. The park was roped off, the background extras were in their places. Some spectators were gathered by the ropelines, watching and snapping mobile pictures. John gave them a wave. He heard them squeal in delight and they waved back.

“Don’t encourage them,” Sherlock grumbled, appearing at his shoulder out of midair.

“They’re just watching. They’re not doing any harm.”

Sherlock made a vague growly noise. “I’d prefer not to be gawked at, especially today.”

“Why today?”

“We’re about to kiss, John. Many times. I’m sure any of the fine journalistic entertainment rags would love to have a set photo of that.”

John hadn’t thought of that. “Well, have them cleared off if it makes you happy.”

“What would make me happy is to get to work. Surely they’re ready by now.”

“I still wish we’d rehearsed this once or twice.”

“We did! Dozens of times.”

“Not the kiss.” Which was true. Sherlock had flat-out refused to rehearse kissing John. His logic was that Ang wanted this to be Benjamin and Mark’s first kiss, so it ought to be theirs, too. They’d rehearsed the ramp-up, the grabbing, the aftermath, everything but the actual snog.

John hoped his breath was fresh.

Clara started getting everyone cleared. Molly Hooper, the rather adorable screenwriter, had been installed in a chair near the monitors; she was perched right on the edge of her seat so she could be as close to the action as possible.

Sherlock strode off the set, his prop mobile in his hand. He’d already been filmed approaching the park, talking on the mobile. He’d just wait for the right cue to enter the park. John took his place under the big shady tree, the bay in the background.

Action was called. John began delivering his lines into his own prop mobile. These lines would all be replaced in ADR, of course. No way a good sound track could be laid down outdoors like this. Sherlock delivered his side of the mobile conversation from just off-camera. John moved around, letting his feet communicate Mark’s nervousness, his desire to move things forward with Benjamin even while he feared doing so.

And then Benjamin told him to turn around. He did so, and saw Sherlock striding toward him across the grass. Benjamin had just informed Mark that he’d never taken a risk in his life and he wanted to start now, with him. John let his hand fall to his side. Sherlock tossed his mobile to the ground. He walked right up to him, seized his face, and then…

Then it got different.

In rehearsals, it had always been one smooth motion. Benjamin grasped Mark’s face and they kissed. Benjamin’s initiation of the change in their relationship was contained in the swiftness and surety of that motion.

But this time, Sherlock hesitated. He took John’s face in his large, elegant hands, moved in, then paused. He just checked himself for a tiny second, looking into John’s eyes as if Benjamin were making sure Mark was okay with this.

 _Then_ he swooped in and kissed him.

Sherlock’s lips were full and soft. Their noses knocked a bit but that felt right, somehow. It was a first kiss, after all. A little awkwardness would help to sell it. John let Mark’s surprise stiffen his body, his mobile falling from his fingers, then his hands drifted up and seized Benjamin’s arms and he returned the kiss. Sherlock pressed in and it felt natural for John to open his mouth so he did, and immediately felt Sherlock’s tongue graze his. The rule for movie snogs, at least with women, was no tongue without advance discussion, but they were both men. And as in all else, Sherlock was the exception to everything.

When Benjamin broke off and drew away, he didn’t retreat as far as Sherlock had in rehearsals. They delivered the next few lines of dialogue in a half-clinch, holding the last beat until Ang yelled ‘cut.’ Spontaneous applause.

John grinned. “Fantastic, mate!”

Sherlock looked troubled. “I’m sorry, John. I don’t know what happened.”

“What do you mean? That was brilliant!”

“That wasn’t how we rehearsed it.”

“I know, but it was better, I thought. C’mon, let’s go watch the playback.” They trooped over to the monitors, where Ang was queuing up the shot. They watched it play out and John nodded. “Yeah. That’s definitely better. More realistic.”

Sherlock still looked uncomfortable. “If you say so. Mind if I change it back for the next take?”

John wanted to tell him not to, that what he’d done in the take had been an improvement, but it wasn’t his job to police Sherlock’s acting choices. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll be there with you no matter what.”

* * *

John pushed open the door to Sherlock’s studio-hired flat with his shoulder, balancing a big bag of Chinese food in the crook of one arm, his other hand occupied with a carrier bag of tonic water and limes. His own flat was directly across the hall, but he hadn’t been spending much time in it. “Oy, Sherlock? Give us a hand with this?”

“I’m occupied.”

“Oh, bully for you, then,” he grumbled. He staggered inside, shut and bolted the door and repositioned the bags for the trip to the kitchen. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, his hands steepled under his nose, doing bugger-all, as far as John could see. “Oh, right you are! I can see you’re so bloody busy!”

“I’m thinking.”

“And you’re incapable of carrying Chinese food and thinking at the same time?”

Sherlock abruptly bounded to his feet. “I was thinking about the scene today.”

“Which one? We shot three scenes today.”

“You know which one. The kiss.”

“What about it?”

“Ang told me that his favorite was the first take, the one with my – aberration.”

“Is that what you’re calling it?”

“It was a deviation from my plan. Yes, I’d call it an aberration.”

“You and your plans. You can’t plan every gesture and every blink of your eyes, Sherlock.”

Sherlock straightened up, looking a bit haughty at the very suggestion. “And why not?”

John frowned. “But…that’s not what you _do,_ is it?”

“John, everything you have ever seen me do in front of a camera is planned and meticulously researched for authenticity. Every tilt of my head, every hand gesture, every intonation of speech is precisely calculated for maximum dramatic realism and effect. Surely you’ve observed this.”

“I’ve observed that you’re very consistent from take to take.”

“Not just consistent. Planned.”

John shook his head. “If that works for you then I won’t criticize. I couldn’t work like that. A performance has to be created from the thoughts, actions and feelings of the character. It has to flow naturally from inside me.”

“Doesn’t that imply that something of you is infused into the character, because he is based on what your emotional responses would be if you were him?”

“Well, I suppose it does.”

“Then that isn’t acting. Acting is putting on the skin of another person, adopting their mannerisms and their speech patterns and their very essence with such realism that there’s nothing of you in them.”

John held Sherlock’s gaze for a moment. “That sounds like a very cold-blooded way to craft a character.”

“Perhaps it is, but it’s worked for me in the past. Ironically, not everyone appreciates the nuance of such an approach.”

“I can’t imagine why,” John said, dryly.

“This is what concerns me. Today I did something that wasn’t rehearsed, that wasn’t planned. And it was deemed better by just about everyone, including you.”

“Sometimes spontaneity can be a good thing. What were you thinking about when you did it? That little hesitation right before you kissed me, that was what sold it. Why did you do that?”

“Well – I’m not sure. It just seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

“See? It was a gut instinct. You’ve gone very deep into Benjamin’s character, Sherlock. You really know him, you’ve internalized him. So you did what you thought he might do. Benjamin wants to kiss Mark, he’s committed to doing it, but he’s a cautious man and he’s got that hesitance that we all have when we’re making a change in a relationship. So he does a bit of an eye-check. Just to be sure he’s not got it wrong. You followed your gut. It’s not something to worry about.”

Sherlock rubbed a hand through his hair. “I’m not accustomed to following that.”

“Everyone raved about your intuitive performance in _Kanisza._ I guess you’ve got them all fooled, huh?” John said. “You want some of this kung pao chicken?”

“Not hungry. And I’m not _fooling_ anyone. I never claimed to be an emotional, intuitive actor. If people view my performances as intuitive, then that’s their interpretation. How that performance is created is none of their business. They’ll always assume whatever it is that they prefer to believe about how I work. I recall critics singling out one moment in _Kanisza_ , during Alistair’s walkabout…” Sherlock trailed off, eyeing John’s expression. John gulped down his mouthful of chicken, feeling sheepish. “What? John, you look odd.”

“I have an awkward confession to make.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve, uh…never actually seen _Kanisza._ ”

Sherlock blinked. “Oh. I see. Well, then my story won’t have much meaning for you. Forget I spoke.” He stalked back to the couch.

John rolled his eyes. “Come on then, it’s no reflection on you. You know I’m a fan. I just somehow missed that one.”

“I usually make it a point to see the nominated films every year.”

“You’re a member of Academy, you have to vote and all that.”

“Even if I were not, I’m always interested in examining the work of my colleagues.”

“Well, pardon my being an ignorant tosser, but I’m typically working a lot during award season. I don’t have to keep my schedule free for awards and interviews and such the way some people do!” Sherlock said nothing. “Let’s watch it now.”

“What?”

“Let’s watch it now! We’ve got on-demand on these tellies. And if it isn’t there we’ll watch it on streaming.”

“John, there’s really no need,” Sherlock said, softening a bit. “I don’t require you to have viewed my entire filmography.”

“But this is the film you’re most famous for, I really should see it. I’ve always wanted to, it’s just that the time runs away as it does.”

“No, it’s quite all right. We needn’t spend our time watching my backlist.”

John narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “Why are you resisting?”

“I’m not resisting!” Sherlock snapped, too quickly.

“Yes, you are! You don’t _want_ to watch it! Oh, are you one of those actors who can’t bear to watch themselves on screen? Because that would just be too precious for words.”

“I am not – _precious!_ I’m just not comfortable seeing myself.”

“Come on, why not?”

“I can’t stop second-guessing my work!” Sherlock exclaimed. “And I keep thinking, my God, do I really look like that? With this ridiculous chin and this face? I’m afraid I’m a slave to my vanity, John. Feel free to inform the Daily Mail.”

John was astounded. He sat down on the couch a bit away from him. “Sherlock, are you having me on?”

“No, why would I be?”

“Do you honestly believe that you don’t look good on screen?”

He snorted. “Part of being an actor is allowing yourself to be seen at your less than perfect moments. Doesn’t mean I want to be the one seeing it.”

“I can’t believe this. You have no idea, do you?”

“No idea about what?” Sherlock asked, looking distressed at the concept of something daring to exist that he had no idea about.

“Sherlock – you’re…” John trailed off. _Let’s see, how to say this without it sounding like a come-on._ He opted for direct. “You’re bloody gorgeous. You should have heard the squeals from every woman I know when I told them I’d be working with you, not to mention playing your romantic interest. Even Sarah, and she doesn’t like blokes!”

“Is that so,” Sherlock said, sounding dubious.

“It is most decidedly so. How can you not know this?”

“I suppose I’ve been told. I just can’t quite see it myself.”

“Oh, none of us can. We all think we’re hideous trolls and no one will ever love us, don’t we?”

“The idea that no one would ever love _you_ is just as preposterous as you seem to think are my doubts about my appearance.”

John flushed, not quite sure how to take that compliment. “Um, thanks, I think.”

“I just mean that you’re the sort of person that most people would find easy to love,” Sherlock hastened to add. “You’re friendly and easygoing and have a way of conversing with people that I have never quite mastered, although if I’d cared to do so I surely would have.”

John smiled, impressed by Sherlock’s backpedaling skills. “Let’s just watch the bloody film, shall we? Your vanity will survive.”

Sherlock fetched a deep, long-suffering sigh. “Very well, if we must.”

 _Kanisza_ was, indeed, available on-demand on Sherlock’s telly. John brought over his Chinese and some wine and they settled in to watch it. Sherlock was tense as the film began, but as it unspooled he seemed to relax.

John had read a lot about the film, of course, and knew its basic plot. It had been nominated for Best Picture and many still considered it a travesty that it hadn’t won, beaten out by a more accessible (and more profitable) war film that had been blatant Oscar bait. As it was, the film’s only two Oscars were for its cinematography and for Sherlock’s performance. He’d been the prohibitive favorite that year. _Kanisza_ was almost entirely Sherlock’s film, he was in almost every scene. He played Alistair Templeton, a sheltered Oxford philosophy professor who traveled to Australia to work on a paper with a reclusive philosopher he only knew through email. The philosopher took Alistair to his remote home in the outback, and then mysteriously died. Alistair remained in the man’s home for several months and found himself living out the philosophical principle of Gestalt that the two had been studying while coming to the disturbing idea that his friend’s death may not have been natural.

John soon forgot his Chinese food, enthralled. The cinematography was stunning, even on this small screen. Sherlock’s performance was as transporting as had been advertised. His Alistair was eager but naïve, properly English but a closet hippie who yearned for a transformative experience.

“This is so Polanski, I can’t even tell you,” John said, about an hour into the film.

“You think so?” Sherlock said, not taking his eyes off the screen.

“It reminds me of _The Pianist._ All that silence, Alistair alone and without dialogue for such long stretches.”

“That comparison has been made before.”

“My God, how are you holding the screen by yourself without speaking for such long periods? I can’t look away.”

“I invented thoughts and writings and internal monologues for every second of Alistair’s screentime. I can tell you exactly what he’s thinking for every moment he doesn’t speak.”

“It shows.” John fell silent and they kept watching. “Is that as remote as it looks?” he finally asked, about half an hour later, while Alistair was doing his walkabout in the central Australian desert.

“Yes, it is. Terrence insisted on practical locations. Everything had to be shipped in and dear Lord, the generators. We set up a base camp where we could reach a few weeks’ worth of locations by lorry, then moved the camp, and so forth.”

“It is a crime that he wasn’t nominated for this.”

“Agreed.”

They finished watching the film in silence. When it was over, John just sat there for a moment, absorbing it. “Holy God, Sherlock. If I weren’t already in awe of you…” He sighed. “What am I doing sharing a screen with you?”

“You’re doing a proper good job of it.”

“I can’t do what you did in that film.”

“Of course you can’t, nor should you. If you’d been cast, you’d have created _your_ performance, not mine.”

“It wouldn’t have been as good.”

“We can’t know that. Based on what I know of you now, it would have been interesting.”

“Your co-stars were all fantastic, too.”

“I agree. I’d gladly work with any of them again. It’s less certain whether they’d be so eager to work with _me_ again.”

“The word was that you were very intense on that shoot.”

“I had a challenging role to prepare for. I had no time for nonsense.”

“You’ve a challenging role to prepare for now, too. And yet you’re making time to watch films with me,” John said, smirking at him.

Sherlock glanced at him, a tiny half-smile sneaking onto his lips. “Perhaps the company is more motivational now than it was then.”

John was flattered, but he couldn’t think of a way to respond that wouldn’t sound hopelessly ingratiating. “So was it too awful, watching yourself?”

Sherlock made an indeterminate noise in his throat. “I suppose I could get used to it.”

“You looked bloody fantastic in that film. All that flattering late-afternoon sunlight and the tan and the fetching outdoor togs.”

“Terrence kept wanting me to look like some sort of Byronic hero, or like Redford in _Out of Africa._ I was keen to be as dirtied-up and disheveled as possible. It was nonstop war with the makeup people.”

John looked at him, sitting with his knees drawn to his chest and his hands clasped around them in an endearing, child-like pose. He felt a sudden rush of affection for his odd co-star – certainly the strangest friend John had ever made. He’d never expected to feel any sort of connection to him, let alone to become his friend. But how could he not? The man was a walking gravity well of enigmatic intrigue. “You’re just at war with the world, aren’t you?” he asked, quietly. It was a shame. He wouldn’t have to be at war with it if the world could pause and look for a moment, and see him for who he was. If he’d let them. John supposed there was equal blame on both sides of that particular dust-up.

“It often seems so. But I’m not at war with you, am I?”

John smiled. “I hope not.”

“Good. I find it’s rather pleasant to be at ease, for once.”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“At ease.”

Sherlock looked at him and smiled, not his smirky little lip-curl or his ‘I’m being forced to tolerate your presence’ fake smile, but a warm, real one. “Yes, John. I believe I am.”

John smiled back, and for a moment they just let the moment sit there and steep in silence. “Well, shall we queue up one of _my_ films, then?” he teased. “Perhaps you’d enjoy the high-flown dramatic stylings and wacky hijinks of _Havana Honeymoon?_ ”

* * *

 _PASSING stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,  
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me, as of a dream,)  
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,  
All is recall’d as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,  
You grew up with me, were a boy with me, or a girl with me, 5  
I ate with you, and slept with you—your body has become not yours only, nor left my body mine only,  
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass—you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,  
I am not to speak to you—I am to think of you when I sit alone, or wake at night alone,  
I am to wait—I do not doubt I am to meet you again,  
I am to see to it that I do not lose you._

 _\--"To a Stranger," Walt Whitman_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MetaNotes for Chapter 4:
> 
> 1\. The quote about an actor performing for free but being paid to wait is by Wil Wheaton, blogger/actor/awesomeness and unofficial King of All Geeks, although he may have been quoting someone else.
> 
> 2\. ADR = Additional Dialogue Recording. Commonly known as “looping.” Almost all films contain some looping; it’s damn near universal for outdoor shoots where wind and traffic noise and leaves blowing and shit often make the audio track recorded during shooting unusable. The actors go into a studio and re-record their lines while watching themselves so they can match their lip movements. Most actors hate doing this and most directors try and minimize the amount that is required. Bad looping is a hallmark of low-budget, poorly-made films.
> 
> 3\. Anderson is the film’s line producer. The line producer is basically the film’s shop foreman. The producer writes the checks and hires everyone, the line producer makes sure the trains run on time and the shit gets done on-set. The producer is often not on set (most producers have more than one project going at once) but the line producer always is. They’re doing most of the day-to-day work running the shoot. It’s a thankless but infinitely crucial job.
> 
> 4\. The “Terrence” referenced is meant to be Terrence Malick. Sherlock already referenced him in the last chapter. The sort of film that I’m describing in _Kanisza_ would probably require a director with pretty rarefied auteur sensibilities but the ability to direct intense on-location shoots and handle big sweeping productions. Malick directed _The Thin Red Line_ and has that reputation.
> 
> 5\. If you haven’t seen _The Pianist,_ do it immediately. In my opinion it’s a better Holocaust film than _Schindler’s List._ It is not an easy film but it is brilliant.
> 
> 6\. The “Aronofsky” referenced is Darren Aronofsky, probably the most prominent bona-fide auteur filmmaker working today. He directed _Requiem for a Dream, The Fountain, The Wrestler, Black Swan_ and others.
> 
> One note about me: I’ve gotten comments regarding my knowledge of the film industry. I ought to clarify that most of it is secondhand. I do not work in the film industry, although I’ve known people who do, and I read a lot of books about it. I have written in the film-analysis and criticism areas and have learned a lot that way. Still, I am no doubt making mistakes, oversimplications and out-and-out fabrications. So don’t take it all on faith. It’s as accurate as I can make it but no guarantees.


	5. Chapter 5

